


To the Least of his Children

by foolishgames



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: A very little Herald, Cassandra will die on the slightest incline, Co-parenting at the end of the world, Epistolary, F/M, Gen, Together They Fight Crime, Varric is a great dad, except for all the swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 04:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 38,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17073863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolishgames/pseuds/foolishgames
Summary: “It’s okay,” says Varric coaxingly. “It’s alright, nobody’s gonna hurt you here. Can you tell me your name?”“Evie,” she whispers.“Evie. What age are you, Evie?”“Ten.”The survivor of the Conclave isn't what anybody expects.





	1. Chapter 1

Haven is the literal ass end of nowhere, is the thing. Crammed up in the Frostbacks, territory so useless and unwelcoming it wasn't even contested between the two nations it bordered, not until the discovery of the temple. And now _that's_ a smoking pile of rubble, and Varric is stuck in a Haven that is freezing, cheerless, and smack underneath a gaping wound in the world.

Literal. Ass. End.

Anyway, the thing has started spitting out smaller versions of itself, little tiny tears in reality, which in turn are birthing demons left and right, and while Varric is on shaky ground vis-a-vis dimension-hopping portals, ten years of Hawke has given him a pretty solid knack for demons, so he pulls on his duster, saddles up Bianca, and reports to the confused mess of soldiers, villagers, and assorted Chantry hangers-on preparing to head up to the smoking crater where the temple used to be. Knight Captain Curly, flagrantly out of uniform, looks at him with a wrinkled brow and expression of vague recognition before pointing him at a motley collection of archers, including a one-eyed elf with a scowl and a pretty sweet crossbow. Not as sweet as Bianca, obviously, but high-end for what it is. He meets the elf’s eye, and they share a nod.

“Moving out!” booms Knight Captain Curly, and Varric tugs his boots up and wishes he’d thought to bring more of the lumpy, hideous, but very warm socks Daisy had taken to knitting a few years back.

Before he gets more than a couple of steps, though, he’s seized by the back of the neck and dragged out of line. “Ow, shit - Seeker!”

Cassandra’s face is like a thunderstorm. “Varric.”

“I’m helping,” says Varric. “There’re demons, I’m good at demons.”

“Yes,” says Cassandra. “Oh, you aren’t - there is another matter I need your assistance with.” She’s still frowning, but Varric suspects maybe it isn’t aimed at him this time.

“You could have just asked,” says Varric. “No need for the manhandling.” He straightens his collar. “How may I serve, Oh Seeker?”

Her mouth tightens. “It is the prisoner.”

“The - the survivor?” Varric follows her as she winds up towards the Chantry. “The one they say-”

“Fell out of the rift, yes. She is awake, but she will not speak to us.”

“And you think, that with my immeasurable charm,” Varric begins, but is cut off with a sharp gesture.

Cassandra pauses outside the door to one of the side rooms off the main part of the Chantry. The knave? Maybe the knave. He should find out, if he’s going to put this in a book, which is inevitable.

“She is afraid of us,” says Cassandra. “Neither Leliana or myself can get a word out of her, she is so terrified. Not even her name. I thought - you are different.”

“I am not intimidating, you mean,” says Varric. Cassandra shrugs.

“You are good at talking,” she says. “I do not believe that she had anything to do with the explosion, but we must learn what she knows if we are to have any hope of gaining control of the situation. I find myself - ill-suited to the task.”

“Dwarf to the rescue,” says Varric. He unstraps Bianca, checks that her safety’s on, and sets her on a nearby table. “Don’t touch my baby,” he tells Cassandra, who pulls a hilariously disgusted face, but opens the door.

The room is windowless, but lit with candles. There are a couple of bunks, a banked fire, a table and chairs - it’s hardly a prison cell. For a long moment, Varric can’t see anyone else in the room, only dim, flickering shadows, and then a lump on the furthest bed moves.

“Hey there,” he says. “I’m not gonna hurt you, it’s okay.”

The lump huddles in tighter. He can make out shoulders and back, limbs curled into a ball, a lot of fair hair. “My name’s Varric,” he says approaching the bed. “What’s yours?”

An eye appears from the cradle of the arms, curtained by hair. She’s small, Varric thinks, maybe an elf - no. Not an elf. He gets a sinking feeling about all of this, about the rumours that had started to circulate about the girl from the rift.

The eye blinks, and the prisoner unfolds a little further. “It’s okay,” says Varric coaxingly. “It’s alright, nobody’s gonna hurt you here. Can you tell me your name?”

“Evie,” she whispers.

“Evie. What age are you, Evie?”

“Ten.”

_Ten_. Varric isn’t an expert on human kids by any means, but ten is _young_. Ten is before adolescence, that awkward in-between stage humans and elves have, ten is pigtails and lessons and bedtimes. No wonder she’s so little.

“Is it okay if I sit down, Evie?”

She considers that, shuffles to the side so he’s got room to sit without being close enough to grab her.

“Thanks. I know you’re pretty scared, but you’re safe here, alright?” She looks dubious. Varric doesn’t press the issue. “Do you remember what happened before you were here?”

Her chin wobbles. “At the temple,” she says. “Madame Claire din’t want me to come, but Enchanter Ruben says it would be,” she pauses, licks her lips, brow creased in thought. “A show of - good trust?”

“So the mage delegation brought you to the temple, then. What happened when you were there?”

Her eyes dart side to side. “I don’t remember?” she says. Tears well up. “We were at the temple and then I don’t remember. It was cold. I was - I think I was running. Something was chasing me. I don’t remember.” She dissolves into tears, but chokes them back, clenching her little fists. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” soothes Varric. “Can you tell me the last thing you remember at the temple?”

She puts her hand to her head. “No. We were at the temple, and Madame Claire was talking, and then I was somewhere else, and then I was here.”

“Do you remember how you got here?”

She shakes her head. Despite the warmth of the room, she’s shivering.

“Okay, kiddo. I’m gonna go see about getting you something warm to eat. Sit tight, okay?”

Her hand snakes out and grabs his sleeve before he can get up, and then she yelps and pulls away like she’s been shocked. "Sorry,” she says, high and strained. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Hey,” he says. “Evie. Hey, what’s wrong? I won’t go far.”

“You won’t -” she says, hides her face again. “I’ll try to remember,” she whispers. “I’ll try really hard, and remember, but don’t let them -”

“It’s okay,” says Varric, “I won’t let them hurt you. You did a good job, kiddo, you don’t have to be scared.”

She lifts her head, and her face is red and tear-stained, and she’s still shaking. “You won’t let them make me Tranquil?”

An enormous ugly rage wells and blooms in Varric’s chest. “No, little one,” he says as gently as he’s able. “I won’t let them make you Tranquil.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 Cassandra is pacing the breadth of the Chantry, visibly agitated, and looks as though she might seize Varric and shake him for information when he emerges. He makes a placating gesture, and hides his startlement when Leliana emerges from the shadows nearby.

“Well, we know why she wouldn’t talk to you,” he says evenly, and gestures at Cassandra’s breastplate. She look down at the Seeker insignia, and back up at Varric. “She thinks you’re a Templar. Poor kid’s shit-scared of being made Tranquil.”

“I would never,” says Cassandra, aghast. “She is a _child_.”

“Yeah, thanks for the warning on that, by the way,” says Varric. “Her name’s Evie, and she’s ten.” Leliana makes a high-pitched, slightly distressed noise, but when Varric looks her way, she is implacable as ever. “The mage delegation brought her along as show of trust or something. Stupid.” He rubs his forehead.

“What of the explosion? The Breach?” says Cassandra. “What of the mark on her hand?”

“What mark?” says Varric, and Cassandra growls in frustration.

“Peace,” says Leliana soothingly. “Varric, anything the child saw could help us.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” says Varric. “She says she remembers coming to the temple, but nothing after that except something vague about being cold, and something chasing her. What mark?”

“There is a magical wound on her left hand,” says Leliana. “Solas believes in is somehow connected to the Breach and the rifts.”

“Solas believes,” said Varric, mildly. “Okay.” Varric wasn’t one to distrust automatically, but an apostate expert on the Fade and the Veil showing up with no explanation hours after a hole was torn through one to the other seemed - fishy.

“She said nothing else?” asked Cassandra. “She knows nothing of the explosion? The Divine? Perhaps she is lying.”

“I don’t think so,” says Varric. “She seemed eager to help.” Eager to avoid being punished for defiance.

“We cannot afford to wait, in any case,” says Leliana. “The breach grows hourly. We must take the child to the temple.”

“What.” Nightingale is terrifying all of the time but most especially when she says things like we must take the child to the temple.

Cassandra sighs. “The mark on her hand may be able to control the rifts. Even close them.”

“So we take the terrified traumatised infant from the dark scary room, march her up to the smoking crater where everyone she knows is in smoking desiccated bits, and throw her at the gaping hole in the sky.”

Cassandra makes one of her lovely disgusted noises. “We will not throw her. Hopefully she will not even need to get too close.”

“We cannot afford sentiment, in any case,” says Leliana briskly. “It is very noble of you to try and protect her, Varric, but the Breach will continue to grow unchecked unless something is done, and I imagine that she will find being sucked into the Fade quite as upsetting as anything else.” As if on cue, there is a clap like thunder from the sky outside, and a long creaky groan like wood beams under strain. From the inner room, a cry of pain, quickly stifled.

Varric rubs his nose. “Any chance of at least feeding the kid before we set off? If she collapses halfway I don't think this will get any easier.”

++

If this were a book Varric was writing, Evie would be plucky, tremulously brave in the face of unspeakable horror. It would be inspiring, perhaps even a little humbling.

As it is, marching a mutely terrified ten-year-old up a snowy mountain to a burned-out demon-infested temple feels uncomfortably like kidnapping. Evie’s unresisting and docile, but it’s clear that she’s merely too frightened to object. She sticks to Varric like a burr, won’t look at Cassandra, sidles away from Solas when they meet him above the village. Her eyes widen and she whimpers when she sees the breach above, and when they come across the first smaller rift, her breathing gets choked and shocky.

“Stay down, kid,” says Varric, and nudges her gently when she doesn’t move. She ducks behind a wall and huddles down, and Varric puts his back to her and concentrates on making sure that none of the demons get close to her. Demons, he hasn’t missed demons.

The only time she struggles is when Solas grabs her wrist; she stiffens and arches away, little feet kicking at the snow, and lets out a short, cut-off screech as green light pours from her palm into the rift. There’s a rising noise like the ground tearing open, a great crash, and then the rift is gone, and Evie is limp and unprotesting again, her face turned away from Solas.

“I apologise for frightening you,” says Solas gently. He releases her hand and Evie yanks it back inside her furs and skitters back over to Varric’s side. He tries to think of something comforting to say.

“Are you injured, child?” says Cassandra. Evie presses against Varric’s side, shakes her head. “We must keep moving, then. Do not be afraid, we will not allow harm to come to you.”

Evie stumbles and cries out when the breach overhead pulses, and her small legs tire quickly until she’s staggering to keep up, and she's so visibly, wretchedly miserable that Varric is distracted the whole way to the forward camp. There’s another rift just at the edge of the camp, and Varric picks off shades with one eye on the fur-bundled figure, nearly gets taken out by a wraith which pops up behind him and scorches the sleeve of his coat. Once the demons are cleared, the rift changes shape, hums with a different intensity: menacing, but quiescent.

“Once more, little one,” says Solas, and Evie shivers and hesitates and fidgets before reluctantly sticking out her hand. The rift closes with a clap, and she reels uncertainly back until Varric catches her by the arms.

“It’s alright,” he tells her. “We’re here, you can rest for a minute.”

Except Chancellor Roderick makes a liar out of Varric as soon as they enter the camp, because Chancellor Roderick is an _asshole_. The kind of asshole who thinks it’s okay to grab a kid and shout in her face and threaten to have her burned as a maleficar.

The expression on Chancellor Roder-dick’s face when he realises he’s got Cassandra’s sword at his throat, Bianca jammed against his balls, and absolutely no sympathy from literally anyone present would be an exceptionally funny memory except for how Evie is hanging limp from Roderick’s grip on her arms because she has actually _passed out from terror_. Varric is a hair’s breadth from explosively castrating him on principle when Leliana snarls “ _Enough_ ,” and everybody close enough to hear her freezes.

Evie cries silently when she wakes up, choked-off sobs and sniffles, tears running down her face, and won’t talk even to Varric. She stays curled up in a ball while Cassandra and Leliana take turns in shouting down Roderick, brandishing weapons, and looking baffled by Solas.

“You’re okay now,” he tells Evie. “I’m sorry about him, he’s an ass, but I won’t let him hurt you.” She doesn’t seem to hear him, even with her vacant gaze on his face. “Eat something, okay? You’ll feel better with some food in you.” He’s got some dry hard tack wrapped up in his pocket, and she blinks when he presses it on her; frowns at him, at the food, puts it in her mouth and chews slowly.

“Be ready to move soon,” says Cassandra, coming over.

“Yeah, I don’t know if that’s going to happen,” says Varric. “Little nug’s pretty shook up.”

“Yes,” says Cassandra, rather than than some snapped insult or rejoinder. “I am sorry, child. We ask much of you.” She crouches down to be closer to Evie’s level. “If you would prefer, I can have one of the soldiers carry you the rest of the way. I know you are tired. One more push and then you can rest.”

Evie shrugs, leans her head against the wall she’s huddled by. But when the time comes, she heaves herself unsteadily to her feet, shrinks away from the soldier Cassandra has drafted.

They take a mountain path to the temple, through an abandoned mine infested with rage demons, and Evie plants her feet one after the other, keeps her head down, and follows Varric grimly. She shuffles out of the way when they’re attacked, lifts her head when she’s spoken to, follows directions. Varric slips her some more hard tack bread when they emerge from the mine back into the winter sunlight, but she holds it in her hand like she’s forgotten how to eat.

What’s left of the Temple of Sacred Ashes stinks from a mile away. Smoke. Burning flesh. Over it all, the heavy metallic rank of magic, clinging to the back of the throat, stinging the eyes.

The first of the bodies - twisted, burned-up things, still smoking - brings bile to Varric’s throat, and he’s stuck fast in place for a long, horrible moment. Before he can so much as turn to check on the kid, Cassandra shoulders her shield and sweeps past him.

“Put your face down in your coat,” she says quietly, and lifts the child into her arms. “No, cover your eyes, little one. Over your face. Yes. We are almost there. Do not be frightened.” Evie twists one small hand blindly into Cassandra’s sleeve, her pale hair shining in the thin light.

Varric unholsters Bianca, and takes point down the crumbling stairs to where the red stuff is singing.


	3. Chapter 3

They take turns carrying the kid back down the mountain. She’s properly unconscious this time, not just swooning, though the healer says there’s been no damage they can see. Even the mark on her hand has stabilised, from a splitting, spreading pulse to nothing more than a fine glittering seam across her palm.

Overhead, the Breach lingers.

She sleeps for three days. Adan drips potions and broth down her throat. Leliana’s ravens bring word of other rifts, more widespread than they had feared, and renewed fighting between mages and templars. Varric cleans his crossbow, writes letters, paces. He visits Evie in her little hut a couple of times; her face has regained some colour, and relaxed in sleep. He sees Cassandra, alight with frustration, training and writing and shouting at Cullen; sees Solas, inscrutable and sleeping sitting up outside like some kind of weirdo. A lean brown Antivan woman in an improbably frilly gold silk number arrives on horseback and holes up in the Chantry with the Nightingale.

Chancellor Roderick’s discovered trying to stir up dissent among the villagers when Flissa punches him in the head. What a gal.

The morning of the third day, a messenger summons Varric to the Chantry, and in the big room at the back of the - is it a knave? He should look that up - have gathered Cassandra, Leliana, Cullen, the frilly Antivan lady (“Lady Montilyet,” says Cassandra, and “Call me Josephine” insists the lady herself) and, inexplicably, Chancellor Roderick. Solas is not present; probably off communing with the fennecs in the woods.

“I have been attempting to discover more about our young friend,” says Leliana.

“Perhaps we should have this conversation not around the guy who wants to burn her alive,” says Varric sourly. Roderick glares at him, one eye swollen entirely shut; neither Adan nor any of the healers would give him the time of day, Varric’s heard.

Cassandra appears to agree with his assessment, if the set of her jaw is any indication, but Ruffly Josephine makes a placating gesture. “The Chancellor may disagree with our assessment of young Evelyn’s role in this matter, but he has agreed to keep his peace for now.”

“He has assured us,” says Leliana, “that the child is in no danger from him.” Her voice is like drawn steel. “And the Chantry has a stake in this matter, as do we all.”

“If you threaten her, I will kill you,” says Cassandra evenly. Varric fondles Bianca in agreement. Roderick sticks his chin out.

“Moving on,” says Leliana. “Evelyn Trevelyan was committed to the Circle at Ostwick three years ago.”

“The Ostwick Trevelyans?” says Varric. “I didn’t know they had a daughter.” A shit-load of money and a trading reach that profoundly irritated the merchant’s guild, but not a daughter.

“They are said to be private people,” says Leliana. “Very devout. Evelyn’s magic was reportedly discovered around the same time as the birth of their second child, Maxwell, and she was sent immediately away for the baby’s safety.”

“And not at all to save face, I’m sure,” says Varric. Three years ago, after the Kirkwall chantry blew, the mage rebellion was reaching a boiling point, and Ostwick was as bad as anywhere. Varric’s not sure there’s a more dangerous and unstable situation to dump your kid in. “How did she end up at the temple?”

“Difficult to say,” confesses Leliana. “The Ostwick Circle clung to neutrality for months after some of the other Circles revolted. It was only in recent months that they joined the rebellion, following a conflict with the Ostwick Templars. There are only rumours surrounding the circumstances.” She sighs, and sifts through some papers. “There are few records, of course, so I cannot say with any certainty if others from the Ostwick Circle attended the Conclave, or yet survive. Did they bring other young apprentices? It is horrible to think.”

“Have you contacted the girl’s family?” asks Cullen.

“Mm,” says Leliana. “I sent a note, to be speedy, and have dispatched a messenger as well, since they will have questions. I do not expect to hear back for some weeks yet.”

“In the meantime,” says Cassandra heavily, “her care falls to us.”

“She is as yet the only means we have of sealing the rifts,” Cullen says. “I’m not - don’t glare, Cassandra, I’m not suggesting we put a suit of armor on her and toss her in the middle of a war, but you must admit, the rifts need to be sealed.”

“And the Breach,” Josephine points out. “It is stable, but for how long? What other purpose may it be turned to?”

“Solas theorises it may be possible to seal the Breach if a significant amount more magic is poured into the mark,” says Cassandra.

“I still think -” says Cullen.

“Hang on,” says Varric. “First of all, the kid hasn’t even woken up yet. I am not okay with taking an unconscious ten-year-old mage anywhere near any kind of demon or rift or whatever. That’s just asking for trouble. Secondly, you maybe want to ask Evie about all of this? Haven’t we terrified her enough for one lifetime, with the forced march, and the giant stompy pride demon? Oh, and the explosively horrible deaths of everyone she knows?”

“We cannot weigh the whining of a brat against the fate of the world!” says Roderick. It’s the first time he’s spoken in the whole meeting. Varric weighs his options, then very precisely blacks the asshole’s other eye and walks out.

++

“I’m hungry,” is the first thing Evie says when she wakes.

“Well, lucky for you, I got some soup right here,” says Varric. He tucks the spoon into her hand, says “Be right back,” and ducks outside to have a little weep out of relief.

He’s in touch with his feelings. It’s all good.

“She’s awake, then?” says Cassandra, making him jump.

“Ahh! Ah, yeah, Seeker. Just woke up and demanded food. Kids, right?” He swipes at his eyes. It’s fine.

Cassandra hesitates. “Do you think - would it upset her to see me?”

Varric shrugs. “If it does, I guess you can leave?”

It seems, however, that Evie is un-upsettable while she’s tucking into a bowl of broth, only amazed at the amount of time that’s passed.

“I never slept for three days before,” she marvels. “Once I slept to after lunchtime, and Mother thought I was sick, but I wasn’t, but I stayed up all night reading. But I never slept for three days.”

“We do not believe you are sick,” says Cassandra. “Only very tired. You had a difficult time.”

Evie’s brow creases, and she visibly shrugs it off. “Did it work? The hand thing?”

“It did,” says Cassandra. “To a point, at least. You saved many lives.”

“To a point means it didn’t work totally,” says Evie. “Doesn’t it? Do I have to do it again?”

“Not right now,” says Varric. “If we do the same thing over, the same thing’ll happen, right? We have to figure out a way to do it properly.”

“And it will not be so dangerous next time,” says Cassandra. Varric has never heard her speak so gently. “If we must go back there, we will be very sure you are safe and protected, do you understand?”

“Alright,” says Evie. “We could ask Madame Claire about the thing, she knows lots about the Fade. Has she come to see me?”  
Cassandra and Varric exchange a look. “Evie,” says Varric. “Evie, listen, sweetheart.”

“Oh no, I forgot,” says Evie. She puts the bowl on the low table by the bed; small, controlled motions. “Ser Cassandra told me before, but I forgot.” She stares at her hands, the fists they make in the blanket. “How come everyone died except me?”

“We don’t know,” says Cassandra. Evie begins to cry, big gulpy sobs she struggles to choke back.

“It wasn’t your fault,” says Varric helplessly, but Cassandra’s hand on his arm quiets him. Varric just watches as the Seeker lifts the crying child, blankets and all, into her lap, and holds her like that. There’s no comforting words, no shushing or rocking, just the strong embrace while Evie cries and cries and cries, until she drops back to sleep between one weary breath and the next.

“Poor kid,” Varric breathes, and Cassandra hums in agreement.

“Children are very strong,” she says, laying Evie back down on the bed. “But she has seen her world destroyed now more than once. I fear she will be long expecting it to happen again.”

“Can’t even say it won’t happen again,” says Varric. Even with the Breach stabilised, it feels as if the world is teetering on some brink. He carefully shuts the door behind them.

Cassandra gives him a long, thoughtful look. “We must endeavor,” she begins, and then shakes her head. “We must protect her as best as possible,” she settles on.

“On that, Seeker, we are in agreement.”

++

The next few days involves a lot of yelling and an unreasonable amount of politics. Cassandra throws a large, heavy book at Chancellor Roderick; one of Leliana’s ravens shits on Solas’ head. Varric gets an incoherent letter from Isabela about almost sailing into a rift in the Waking Sea. Evie screams whenever Cullen gets near her.

It’s an inauspicious start to the new Inquisition he’s apparently joined. Varric will have to write a better one.

++

“You’ll come back, though,” says Evie. She’s sitting on the wall by Varric’s tent, watching him stuff things into his pack in preparation for a trip to the Ferelden Hinterlands.

“One better,” says Varric. “Play your cards right, I’ll bring horses back.” Varric isn’t fond, personally, but Evie’s got a totally age-appropriate fascination for the big whinnying stompy beasts, and her face lights up.

“Is a horse for me?”

“Oh, maybe,” says Varric, and taps his nose. “You have to be really good, though, you promise?”

“Yep, promise,” says Evie.

“And mind Ruffles. Lady Montilyet.”

“I will.”

“I won’t be long. Couple of weeks, probably.”

Evie pulls a face. “That’s ages.”

“Yeah, you’ll be all grown up and commanding armies before I can blink.”

Evie’s laugh is stifled and brief, but her eyes shine.

She cries again when she waves off their little party, but keeps her hold of Josephine’s hand, and Varric has to force himself not to keep looking back over his shoulder until Haven’s out of sight.

“You have become very fond of the child,” Solas observes, and Varric bristles.

“Mind your business,” he barks.

“This is going to be a long trip,” Cassandra sighs.

It is.

The south of Ferelden is everything Varric despises about rurality: mud, wild animals, bad smells, no privies for weeks. Add in the bulk of the renewed war between the rebel mages and rogue templars, a surprise appearance by red sodding lyrium of all things, and more refugees than he ever thought to see again, and Varric is ready to set something well and truly on fire by the day they make it to Master Dennet’s.

“He wants the Inquisition to what,” says Varric flatly, by the campfire that evening.

Cassandra’s head is in her hands. “Build watchtowers.”

“And hunt down some wolves,” adds Solas mildly.

“And prove,” says Cassandra, the words rolling off her tongue, “that the Blessed Child is truly with us, by having her close the rifts hereabouts.”

“The Blessed Child.”

“Indeed.”

Varric groans and leans back against his pack. “We are not bringing Evie here. There are bears.”

“And Templars,” says Solas gravely. “The Blessed Child hates Templars.”

Cassandra throws a chicken bone at him.

Varric’s promises aside, it is close to six weeks before their little party returns from the lowlands with a half-dozen good horses, a map of watchtower locations and rift sites, and a sack of wolf pelts. Varric wants a bath more than he wants anything in the world, including an end to war and smith caste restraining orders. He’s up to his eyebrows in sudsy water before it occurs to him to worry that he hasn’t seen Evie yet; Josephine had merely said “Ah, she is with the priest you sent, doing her lessons,” and Varric had accepted that and made a beeline straight for the bath house, leaving Cassandra to debrief the others. She no doubt has been looking forward to complaining about Varric and Solas, and he would hate to deprive her of the opportunity.

He’s squeaky-clean and steaming a little in the cool air when he finally emerges into the reddening sunset. Clean clothes, whole socks and fresh boots make for a world of difference in a man’s outlook on life, and Varric is humming to himself as he trudges up towards the Chantry. In their absence, it seems the Inquisition has been taking on more recruits: Curly is supervising a motley crew in matching green hoods and various stages of competence, and there are a suspicious number of aggressively nondescript persons hanging about the tent where the Nightingale keeps her ravens.

“Fereldan is awful, Nugget,” he announces, sweeping into the little side room. “Sorry I’m late.”

Evie looks up from the book she’s bent over, frowns at him, and pointedly looks away. “Oh. Hello.”

“Shit,” says Varric, and promptly starts sweating at the dark look Mother Giselle shoots his way. “I know I was gone longer than I thought, Evie-girl. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she says. “I hope your trip was good.”

“It was miserable,” he says. “Muddy. Wolves. Got knocked out by a demon that looks like a tree.”

“Oh,” says Evie again, and then, scrupulously polite, “Excuse me, I’m supposed to be studying.” She tips up the book she’s reading - some dry thing on Blight history - in evidence. Between that and Mother Giselle’s cold, disdainful gaze, Varric is thoroughly cowed as he slinks out.

Not too long after, he watches Cassandra exit the Chantry, stiff-backed and clench-jawed, and falls into step beside her as she beelines for the nearest training dummy.

“I am not in the mood, Varric,” she says tightly.

“Wouldn’t talk to you either, huh,” he says. “I guess it’s to be expected.”

Cassandra’s training sword isn’t sharpened, but it’s still a solid hunk of metal taller than he is, and Varric keeps a wary eye on it.

“Yes,” says the Seeker, after a few whacks at the straw-stuffed sack. “She has been let down and abandoned by adults her whole life.”

“And I did tell her we’d only be gone a couple of weeks.” Varric kicked despondently at the ground. “She’ll come around, though.”

“Do not underestimate the stubbornness of girls,” says the Seeker darkly. “My uncle -” she shook her head. “It is no matter. She will learn that she can trust us by our actions.”

“It might help that I brought back a present?” Varric guesses. “Do you think she likes plums?”

Cassandra pauses in her hacking. “I suspect so,” she says. “She may also - I found her an amulet. That trader on the road, if you recall.” She clears her throat. “It has a charm for protection and warmth on it, and it is… pretty.”

“I did promise her pony, though,” says Varric, just for Cassandra’s snort.

++

Despite Cassandra’s dark predictions, it takes only a few days for Evie to warm back up to them. “You can’t buy my love with presents,” she says, and jams a plum into her mouth, chews, and spits the pit with great accuracy into a bucket in the snow outside Varric’s tent.

“Can I buy your love with horse rides?” asks Varric. “What about with money, do you take bribes? I’m willing to go pretty significant lengths to get back in your good books.”

“I will not bribe you,” says Cassandra, with great dignity. “I respect your decisions. Did you not like the amulet?”

Evie fishes it out of her collar. “It’s pretty,” she says. “Are you going to bring me presents every time you go away?”

“You drive a hard bargain, Nugget,” says Varric. “Don’t think I can’t see you trying to set up a bidding war.”

“We may be going away frequently,” says Cassandra. “But now that we have good horses, we can make better time.” Evie pouts, and Cassandra flounders. “Perhaps - perhaps one small present?” she says. “From both of us?”

Evie seems to accept this. “And maybe,” she says, bites her lip. “You could write to me? You wrote to Lady Josie, I saw the letters.” Her eyes widen. “I wasn’t snooping.”

“I think that is an excellent idea,” says Varric. “We can keep you updated on our wild adventures!”

“You must not believe anything Varric writes,” says Cassandra, putting her hand on Evie’s shoulder. “He tells dreadful lies.”

“Dearest Messere Evelyn,” Varric begins aloud, already rummaging in his things for a quill. “Today we fought a bear on purpose, and then a druffalo by accident mostly. You will not believe which one knocked Seeker Pentaghast unconscious.”

“Lies,” says Cassandra, her mouth twitching. Evelyn is giggling, a hand over her mouth to prevent a plum explosion.

“Seeker, does your family name have an ‘H’ in it? It occurs to me I’ve never seen it written.”

“...No,” says Cassandra unconvincingly, after a slightly-too-long pause.

“Then Solas found a glowing skull, saw a shiny rock, and fell off a cliff.”

“It was not a cliff, it was a steep bank. He mostly slid.”

“You write your letters, I’ll write mine.”


	4. Chapter 4

The next time they leave Haven, however, it’s with Evie clinging onto the back of Cassandra’s horse and a couple of Cullen’s best men riding with them.

“Can I re-iterate,” Varric begins.

“No,” Cassandra snaps.

From behind them, Solas heaves a great mournful sigh. Varric has not been circumspect in his disapproval of this plan to present Evie to the remaining grand clerics. He would have been even more outspoken if he hadn’t wanted to alarm Evie by shouting about the possibility she’ll be kidnapped or assassinated in Val Royeaux, but the last few days have been… tense. Cullen had looked relieved to see them go. Josephine would never be so indiscreet, but she had chirped for them to have relaxing journey. Even Evie is quiet and subdued, resting her head against Cassandra’s back and rocking with the rhythm of the horse.

Varric reaches back for Bianca. Bad form to go armed for bear to the Chantry, but he has no intention of letting anybody near enough to Evie to so much as startle her. And it’s a long trip to Val Royeaux.

“What miserable weather we’re having,” says Solas blandly. “Do you think it might snow?”

Nobody replies. Varric grits his teeth, glares at Cassandra, and rides on.

++

Crossing the Waking Sea, they discover that Evie is a poor sailor: mute, miserable and puking. When they disembark on the Val Royeaux docks, she sits herself very firmly down on the ground and won’t be moved for some time. Cassandra sits by her and strokes her hair while Varric hares off and buys a half-dozen small, useless things just for pleasure of being able to spend money. He shoves most of his haul into his pack and bribes Evie to her feet with one of the Orlesian pastries that’s three-fourths butter and stuffed with chocolate; by the look on her face, the kid’s never had anything like it, and she’s licking the last flaky crumbs from her fingers as they enter the main market square.

There are Templars, and things get ugly.

Varric shoves Evie behind him the moment the Templars show up; sees the blue glow that means Solas has brought up a barrier over her. Lord Seeker Lucius looks over the child with a sneer and makes a move like he’s going to step towards her, and then there is Cassandra the immovable object, and things devolve from there.

They don’t - quite - come to blows in the middle of Val Royeaux, but it’s a damn near thing. Evie’s got a hand knotted in Varric’s coat, her knuckles white and her face whiter, and when the Templars finally form up and march off, she says “Oh, I’m going to -” and staggers off to vomit into a nearby bush. Solas trots over to pat her on the back and glare at the outraged Orlesians making outraged noises about the outrageous child puking out of terror, how dare she.  
“Well, cross the Templars off the list,” says Varric.

“What is he doing?” Cassandra breathes, but she’s manifestly not addressing Varric, gaze turned inwards with contemplative horror. “This is not like him. This is not at all - I must write to Leliana at once.”

“Yeah,” says Varric, already thinking fast. He doesn’t have many contacts among Templars or Chantry folk, due to the nature of his work, but if the majority of the order are making for parts unknown it’ll shake the lyrium trade down some. He’ll have to put some feelers out, maybe reach out to the Carta fringes.

They take a room in a wayhouse - near enough to the docks for cheapness, but not so close as to be a thinly-veiled brothel - and Cassandra huddles over the desk, writing in her choppy uneven hand so rapidly she smears the ink and splatters drops all over the page. Varric deploys one of his purchases, a pretty little music box, to distract Evie for a few minutes, and Solas stands by the window staring out over the city.

“I’m for a drink,” says Varric. Cassandra looks up long enough to shoot him a poisonous look. “It’s an information-gathering mission, Seeker, put away the eyes.”

“Can I come?” says Evie.

“Absolutely not,” says Cassandra, over the top of Varric’s, “Not this time, Nugget.” They squint suspiciously at each other.

“It’s better if you stay here with Cassandra for the moment, kiddo. Maybe you could write a letter to Josephine to send with this bundle? I bet she’d like that.”

Evie sighs. “Ohhhh-kay. I guess.”

The beer in Val Royeaux has fancy Orlesian names but drunk is universal and horse-piss brew nearly so. Varric hops from one sticky establishment to another, paying for rounds, striking up conversations, playing drunker than he actually is, and gets back to the others at around nine-bells with a lighter purse and a deck of stolen playing cards.

“This city’s a fucking mess,” he says as he comes into the room.

“Shhh,” says the Seeker. There’s only a single candle lit casting a puddle of light around the desk, Evie asleep on the bed wreathed in shadow. Solas is nowhere to be seen.

“There’s three separate civil wars going on in Orlais right now, you know that?” says Varric, softer. “The Empress and the Duke, the mages and the Templars, and now there’s the Chantry and the Inquisition. People are terrified.”

“Mm,” says Cassandra. She’s still sat at the desk, but it’s clear of letters now. She’s just sitting in the dim room, thinking. “It has occurred to me that introducing yet another powerful faction will not necessarily stabilise anything.”

“Well, our other option is to… not do anything, and let the world dig itself into a hole, so.” He catches Cassandra’s wry smile.

“That is not my way at all,” she admits. “I can only hope we do not do more harm than good.”

“Sure,” says Varric. “We’re the good guys, right? Killing demons, closing rifts, protecting the innocent.”

Cassandra leans back in her chair. “Well, our first political maneuver has gone poorly. Perhaps we ought to stick to hunting wolves outside Redcliffe.”

“Herding druffalo.”

“Robbing corpses for profit.”

Varric snorts louder than he’d meant to, covers his mouth with a cautious glance at the sleeping kid. “Shit, Seeker.”

“Leliana tells a story of her adventures during the Blight,” says Cassandra. “The people she travelled with would collect armour and weapons after battle as a matter of course, and sell them if they couldn’t use them. Eventually they attracted the attention of a merchant who followed them around in his wagon from place to place and bought everything they would sell him. After the Blight he became a dreadfully rich man, I hear, selling artefacts of their adventures, and Leliana has sworn that she will never again wear armour that has been on a dead person.” She looks at the candle, frowning. “Leliana tells it better.”

Varric looks up from taking off his boots. “Didn’t Leliana fight with the Wardens during the Blight?”

“She did.”

“So the King and Hero of Ferelden paid their way through the greatest battle of the age by grave robbing.”

“Is it grave robbing if the body is not yet in a grave?” Cassandra wonders. “Ah. Nevermind. You should sleep, I will be up for hours yet.”

“You won’t get a reply before morning, Seeker,” says Varric, but curls up next to Evie anyway. She takes up hardly a third of bed, which is fortunate, because Varric is not exactly narrow. Across the room, the flickering candle outlines Cassandra’s profile as she bends over another letter, huffing quietly and muttering under her breath.

Cassandra judges it safe to take Evie out into the city the following day. The child needs proper warm boots and clothes that aren’t rags or cut-down dwarven garments, and the Inquisition needs all sorts of things - ink and vellum, fabric and needles, flour and salt. Solas turns up again as they set out, looking serenely well-rested, and brightly suggests some bookstores which might have tomes of use to the researchers, and he and Cassandra fall to bickering as they browse the markets.

“Evie-girl,” says Varric, spying a glass figurine in the shape of a stylised horse, “look at this, isn’t it pretty?”

Evie isn’t there.

“Shit. Uh, Seeker?”

After a frantic few minutes of rushing about and hissed accusations, Evie turns out to be quite nearby, sitting calmly on one of the broad staircases which lead to the upper balconies of the city buildings. “There was an elf,” she says, and shows them an arrow as evidence, the tip splintered as if it’s been driven into stone. “She’s Sera Jenny. She’ll meet us at Haven.” There’s a slip of parchment crumpled in her hand; Varric pries it off her while Cassandra makes outraged noises about _talking to strangers_ and _wandering off_.

“Being fair,” says Solas, “by that logic she should never have talked to anybody from the Inquisition.”

“Do not help, Solas!”

The paper is a poor drawing of a pair of trousers on fire, and a scrawled nursery rhyme that tugs at some memory in the back of Varric’s mind. “What did you say your new friend is called, Nugget?”

“Sera. But she says she’s Jenny sometimes. But lots of people are Jenny, she says. She helps people.”

“Not Red Jenny?”

Evie claps a palm to her forehead. “Oh, I forgot. I din’t understand why she was Red, she’s got yellow hair like mine. Maybe the other people who are Jenny are different colours?”

“Maybe,” says Varric. He’d never met the Kirkwall Red Jenny, so far as knew, though Isabela swore she’d slept with him. And he’d never even heard rumours of the Orlesian Red Jenny - an elf, an archer, with yellow hair. It isn’t much to go on.

The cipher in the note is simple enough, anyway.

Varric’s plans to casually announce he’s got things to do are derailed when they get back to the inn and there’s a message waiting for them. Cassandra reads it, then produces a disgusted noise of such magnificence Varric is driven to investigate.

“Ooh, a party!” he says. “The estate of Duke Bastien, but hosted by Madame de Fer - decidedly not his wife, how daring.”

“Might it be a trap?” Solas offers. Varric doesn’t kick him, but he thinks hard about it.

“I do not believe so,” says Cassandra. “Madame de Fer is a staunch Loyalist and a born politician. It would serve her poorly to make such aggressive moves so early.”

“So… you’re going?” says Varric. “Taking the kid to see how the other half lives?”

“I notice you are not including yourself in that number,” says Cassandra bitterly.

“Come on, Seeker, the market’s still open. We can find you a dress.”

“I am going to cut off your hair while you sleep.”

“Now, now,” says Solas, doing a poor job of hiding his grin.

Evie tugs on Cassandra’s sleeve. “Are we going to the party? Who’s Madam Fur?”

“Madame de Fer is a mage,” says Cassandra. “She is the Enchanter to the Orlesian Court, a very important person.”

Evie pulls an uncertain face. “Madame Clair said that mages who stayed in Circles are turncoats and weak-minded sheep. Is Madame du Fer a turncoat?”

Solas chokes on nothing. “Perhaps you should ask her?”

“You should not ask her,” says Cassandra. “Not all mages joined the rebellion, Evelyn. Madame de Fer is a powerful lady with many privileges, so perhaps she saw no reason to rebel.”

“Lucky Madame de Fer,” says Varric. “I want to make a crack about lapdogs and leashes here, gimme a minute to come up with something.”

“Shut up, Varric,” says Cassandra. “Evelyn, If we go to this party, you must be on your best behaviour, are we agreed?”

“Alright,” says Evelyn.

“You must mind your manners and not ask impertinent questions.”

“About the Circle?”

“About the Circle, or the rebellion, or any of it.”

“What if they ask me?”

“Then you must pretend to be very shy and not say anything. I will be there.”

“Not Varric?”

“I dunno if they let dwarves into these shindigs, Nugget.”

“They do,” says Cassandra, putting an arm around Evie and beginning to lead her away. “They are less thrilled about people who refuse to button their shirts, though. It is thought to test the bounds of decency.”

Evie’s cheeky giggle lingers after they’ve gone upstairs.

“Well,” says Solas, “What shall we do with our evening?”

“If you’re not too busy communing with the building foundations, I could use backup on this job,” says Varric.

The Orlesian Red Jenny turns out to be Fereldan, and few screws short. She’s also weirdly hostile to Solas, but visibly relaxes when Varric introduces himself - “Aw, the Kirkwall peacekeeper, ain’t you?” - and her offer to aid the Inquisition appears to be sincere.

“You’ll want to talk to Leliana when you get there, that’s Sister Nightingale,” Varric tells her. “Or wait a couple days and you can come with us on the boat.”

“Nah, busy busy,” says Sera, twirling an arrow. “Sprog’s okay, though? She’s awful small.”

“She’s had a rough time of it,” says Varric. “She’s fine.”

“She can do the twinkle thing? With the hand?”

“Sure can.”

“Right then. Guess I’ll see you there.” And then she’s gone, leaving Varric and Solas in a secluded courtyard with a half-dozen half-naked corpses and a sack of woolen breeches.

“What an interesting young woman,” says Solas.

++

Evie is furious that they have to get back on the boat to get back to Fereldan. “Can’t we ride?” she sulks.

“Not across the water,” says Cassandra, attention more on the letter in her hand than Evie. “But we will have the wind on our side, this journey will be shorter.”

“I don’t want to,” says Evie plaintively.

“I am aware,” says Cassandra. “However, we have no other means of getting back to Haven, unless there are griffons about I am unaware of.”

“If I find a griffon, do we have to go on the boat?”

Cassandra blinks at her. “That sounds fair. If you find a griffon before tomorrow morning, we can ride that back to Haven and not worry about the boat.”

Evie scrambles to her feet. “I’ll go look! Come on, Varric.”

“Look what you did, Seeker,” says Varric, but follows Evie out into the city anyway, because their room at the inn is fine but he doesn’t want to be in it all the damn time.

“I don’t think we’ll find a griffon, Evie-girl,” he says as she skirts the edge of a fountain, peering for fish.

She looks unimpressed. “Everyone knows the griffons are gone,” she says. She dapples her fingers in the water. “Maybe Madame Vivienne won’t come on the boat though, do you think?”

“It seems kind of silly for her not to, seeing as we’re all going the same place.” He catches her arm as she leans a little too far over, tugging her back from toppling in. “Why, you don’t like Madame Vivienne?”

Evie’s quiet for a minute, examining the veins of the marble fountain ledge. “How come she’s not in a Circle?” she says eventually. “She says that Circles are best for mages, but she lives in a big fancy house and has servants and no Templars or anything.”

“That’s a complicated question, Nugget,” he says, rubbing his nose. “The people who make the rules don’t always make them apply to everyone the same.”

“Unfair,” says Evie. She folds her arms around herself.

“Yeah,” says Varric. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure Madame Vivienne worked very hard to get where she is.”

“But lots of people work hard and still live in Circles or get hurt by Templars,” says Evie. “Can I get a pastry?”

“A chocolate one?”

“Blueberry please.”

“Sure.”

++

Vivienne is fortunately not with them when the leader of mage rebellion accosts them on their way to the docks the next day. For a mage, Grand Enchanter Fiona is surprisingly light-footed and stealthy; Varric is impressed even as he shoves Evie behind him.

Then again, little about the Grand Enchanter is as it seems. Though she seems to be a frail, delicate elven woman of uncertain age, Varric has heard that she is a prodigiously powerful mage, and the only person to ever be let go from the Grey Wardens - a story he really, really wants to hear. She is so terribly unassuming and soft-spoken it’s hard to imagine her fighting darkspawn.

“I would not trust the Templars,” she is telling Cassandra.

“And we should trust the rebel mages?” replies the Seeker. “For all we know it was one of your people who caused the explosion. It was certainly magical.”

Fiona looks pained. “I knew of no such intent. If it was a mage, it was a lone madmen, and not the work of the rebellion.”

“I am not certain I appreciate the distinction,” says Cassandra.

“We are not panicking animals without our cages,” says Fiona, rather sharply. “The rebellion has elected leaders, and aims to end the war with as little bloodshed as can be managed. Just because we will not submit to the collar and chain does not make us without reason and compassion.”

Cassandra bows her head for a moment, frowning. “The Inquisition will consider your offer, Grand Enchanter,” she says finally. “We will find you in Redcliffe. Excuse me, we must get to the docks.”

“Pardon me,” says Fiona. “Is that the child the rumours speak of?”

Evie peeps around Varric. “You came to Ostwick one time,” she says.

“I have been to Ostwick many times, little one. You were an apprentice at the Circle?”

“When you came they did a special dinner and we all got pudding with dates in.”

“I am fond of dates,” says Fiona. “First Enchanter Robards knows - knew this.”

“Oh.” This appears to exhaust Evie’s interest in the conversation. She sticks her hand into Varric’s pocket, fishing for sweets, and he hastily removes it because he’s got a prototype of a tiny bomb he’s been fiddling with, and if she explodes her hand they’ll have no way of closing rifts.

“I will see you in Redcliffe,” says the Grand Enchanter. “Of course, the child is also welcome.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Some of Leliana’s people meet them at the docks in Jader.

“We’ve had word from a mercenary company which wants to sign on,” says the messenger. “They’re camped at the Storm Coast, just a couple of days ride.”

“Mmm,” says Cassandra, frowning. “Wait a moment. Evie, why don’t you go back to Haven with Jim and his men? We will join you soon, after we see to some business.”

Evie scowls. “Can’t I come with you?”

“No, it is much too dangerous. There are reports of darkspawn in the area.”

“I’m not scared of darkspawn.”

“Oh, run _along_ , my dear,” sighs Vivienne, and Evie goes pink and quietly furious.

“Hey Nugget, lemme tell you something,” says Varric, tugging her to one side. “This is a secret, okay? There’s someone to see you at Haven when you get there.”

“Who?”

“Your new friend Sera who you met in Orlais.”

Evie tries not to look to excited. “Really?”

“Really.”

She looks from him, to Cassandra, uncertain. “And you won’t be months and months and months this time?”

He pokes her. “We’ll be a week behind you. Maybe less.”

“Promise?”

He sighs. “I promise I will write to you if it’s going to be longer, okay?”

“Okay.”

++

Varric and Cassandra have a knock-down, drag-out fight about the Iron Bull and his company and proceed to not speak to one another until they are halfway back to Haven.

“Are they often like this?” Vivienne asks Solas in a voice meant to carry. She’s brought her own horse from Val Royeaux, some glossy white thing with legs that look too thin to support it, like an imposing statue next to Solas’s grey mare.

“Frequently,” says Solas, sounding far too amused. “Not worry, they’ll shortly figure out that they are in agreement on all major points and pretend to never have been arguing in the first place.”

Cassandra, who has been pretending not to listen, lets out a furious noise. “We are not in agreement! Varric wants to let that - that ox have unfettered access to the child!”

“I do not,” says Varric. “I never said that! I said he could be useful, and that Evie would like him, both of which are true, by the way,”

“I do not believe he can be trusted,” says Cassandra stubbornly -

“I’m not suggesting we trust him,” says Varric in exasperation -

“I am trying to protect the child!”

“I don’t think we should turn down the opportunity!”

Vivienne gives a delicate little hem-hem. “Well, what do you propose be done about the Qunari, Seeker?”

Cassandra sets her jaw. “I know that we cannot afford to turn down skilled help at present,” she allows. “But I do not think it would be wise to make him Evie’s bodyguard. We cannot afford to trust that far.”

“Obviously,” says Varric. “Look, all I said is that Evie would like him, okay? That doesn’t mean we have to trust him. Just that he might make her feel, I don’t know, safer.”

Cassandra breathes out hard through her nose. “That is. Probably true.”

They ride on in silence.

“Well,” says Vivienne brightly. “I’m glad we’re all seeing eye-to-eye.”

“Oh, short jokes,” says Varric sourly. “Lovely.”

++

Within two days of their return to Haven, Sera has a regular table at the tavern, Vivienne refuses to leave the dry, warm, stone-walled Chantry for anything less than a full-scale invasion, and Evie has taken to riding around on the Iron Bull’s shoulders, steering by the horns.

“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind for bodyguarding duties, Tethras,” he grunts. Evie is clambering around him, trying to work out if there’s a way she can sit comfortably on the span of his great horns, for ‘extra majesticness, Bull!’.

“Really? I pictured pretty much exactly this,” says Varric. “Evie, careful! He’s only got one eye, don’t stick your foot in it.”

“Sorry,” says Evie, losing her balance. Bull slows her descent but drops her into the snow anyway, where she lies and giggles.

“You’re trouble and a half, kid,” says Bull, nudging her with his foot.

“No, just Evie,” she says.

Varric doesn’t trust the Qunari, not one bit of it, and Evie can adore him all she likes but Varric’s not leaving her alone with a Ben-Hassrath spy for all the gold in this shitty little hamlet, and he doesn’t have to trust the guy the play cards and share a drink with him, right?

Evie starts to laugh, and laugh, and rolls away from them right as a wagon-load of snow tips from the embankment above, burying the Iron Bull to the waist and Varric to somewhere about the eyeballs, somehow missing Evie completely. Sera whoops with glee above them and capers excitedly.

Iron Bull stands stoically, his massive arms folded. “Funny weather we’re having,” he intones, while Evie shrieks with laughter and dashes after Sera, and Varric wiggles free with as much dignity as he can manage.

++

Dear Messere Tethras and Messere Pentaghast (I asked Josie so I spelt it right),

I hope your trip to Redcliffe is going okay. Yesterday a caravan arrived from Jader with five more builders and a man who says he can make Qunari blackpowder, but Sister Lelyana sent him away and said ‘we don’t need your sort’ so I guess he was lying. But one of builders brought his whole family including his kids who are nine and 13 and that makes six kids total here in Haven, so we can play proper kickball! Jan who is thirteen thinks he is the boss because he is the biggest, but Will is quicker and its his ball, so when Jan bosses Will says it is time for him to go home for supper even if its only lunchtime and then we don’t have a ball. Sooka thinks that I should be boss since her Mama says I’m the Blessed Child but that doesn’t sound right.

Since you are in Redcliffe meeting the mages rebellion I forgot to ask if you could keep an eye out for my friend Niko who was at the Circle with me. He is fifteen and he has black hair. I don’t think he was at the Conclave so maybe he is not dead and is with the other mages? I don’t know how else would be a good way to find him. I bet Lelyana would know, I will ask her. But if you see him please tell him hello and that I am at Haven.

There is not much going on here so I will finish up. Please be safe and hurry back soon, it is very boring without you.

Love,

Evie

PS Mother Giselle has just said I should write different letters for each of you, and that I should sign my name Miss Evelyn Trevelyan but that sounds silly. I tell you both the same things anyway. Also I have just made a clean copy of this one and there is no time to rewrite before the ravens go - next time! E.

PPS Tell Iron Bull I said hello and that he still owes me a silver, hah.

++

Dearest Evie of all Evelyns,

Don’t worry too much about Mother G’s fussing; she is a lady of great worth and experience, no doubt, but you don’t need to worry about formalities with friends.

We aren’t in Redcliffe yet - the roads around here are still a mess. I know you’re unhappy to be left behind, but you would find this honestly very boring, Nugget, except for the times when we are attacked, which would be pretty scary for you. There are lots of scared people, and hungry people, and angry people. And some demons, too. Don’t worry though, once we get things settled down a bit around here, we’ll bring you to see all the sights, and to use your magic hand to fix up the rifts. But like the Seeker says, we’ll make sure you’re protected, so you don’t have to be scared.

Anyway, it’s dull in Ferelden and smells of dogs and druffalo dung. Iron Bull is trying to teach Vivienne a song he learned in Antiva and she is pretending that he isn’t there, which is quite a feat as he is blocking out the sun. Seeker is sharpening her sword and has been for at least an hour.

We will be at Redcliffe tomorrow, or more likely the day after, and I will write you again from there. I hear there is a decent bookseller in the village, do you have any requests?

Yours,

Varric

PS I think you’d be an excellent boss, Evie-girl.

++

Dear Evie,

I passed on your request to Iron Bull, and he laughed for a long time and said “Tell that little card shark double or nothing.” If he tries to wriggle out of of the debt you must be insistent with him. I give you permission to kick him if you must. It is important you not gain a reputation for being easy to take advantage of.

We are making good time to Redcliffe, but there are many urgent matters requiring our attention. In good conscience I cannot leave these refugees hungry or unprotected, and it has slowed us considerably. However, every day Leliana and Cullen send more forces into the region, and aside from some pockets of bandits, I believe we have managed to clear the most pressing problems. The winter here will be hard, but Maker knows Fereldans are a sturdy, stubborn race. They will be inventing songs about this by springtime, I am sure.

Tomorrow we turn North along Redcliffe Road, and should be in the village not long after. It has been protected from the worst of the fighting, and its people turned back attacks of darkspawn and worse only ten years ago. There are concerning rumours regarding the Arl, but I am not overly worried - Arl Teagan is a dogged man, as Fereldans are, and the castle itself is said to be near-impregnable.

I hope you are well and keeping up with your lessons and minding Lady Montilyet. You have indeed spelled my name correctly, but Leliana’s has no y in it. I have not yet located a suitable present for you, so please let me know if there is anything you would particularly like. You are welcome to write to Varric and me both in the same letter, or different letters, as it suits you. It is pleasant to hear from you either way.

Sincerely,

Cassandra Pentaghast

++

Dear Varric and Cassandra,

I tried to decide what book I wanted as a present but I couldn’t think of just a one. We didn’t have fun books at the Circle, only dull theory books and Chantry sermons. Sometimes the other apprentices would sneak in some story books and read to the rest of us after lights out. I liked the ones with sword fights but now I think sword fights are less fun since since I left the Circle. Please bring whichever one you think I would like best. Only no kissing books as they are unseemly says Mother Giselle.

Leliana (see?) has sent a group of people up to the temple where the big rift is. I don’t know what they’re looking for and Leliana just makes humming noises and says ‘run along’ if I ask. Nobody explains things when you both aren’t here.

This morning I banged into Chancellor Rodrick when I was going into the Chantry and then I ran away very fast and hid on the blacksmith’s roof. I missed morning prayers with Mother Giselle and she scolded me even though I tried explain about Rodrick. I thought he wasn’t even in Haven anymore I thought he left. I don’t like him. Mother Giselle says its rude to say that but I don’t. If I was the boss I would send him away and i wouldn’t make people be polite to mean people.

Do you think the bookseller will have any books about dogs? I know you don’t like how they smell but Jan has a dog that’s part Mobari and it’s the cleverest dog in the world.

Love Evie.

++

Evie -

We are on our way back with all haste. Cassandra is sending a letter with more detail to Leliana, and she will explain further. We are all safe and well but in a hurry so I am writing to you for both of us. Don’t worry.

See you soon.

Varric (and Cassandra)

 


	6. Chapter 6

There is a meeting, and it goes like this:

“There is no other option,” says Cullen. “We must approach the Templars.”

“Evie is terrified of Templars,” says Varric.

“Well, we can’t let her meet with a Tevinter magister,” says Cullen.

“Of course not,” says Leliana, visibly planning exactly that.

“We cannot leave a hostile foreign power occupying a Fereldan stronghold, either,” says Josephine contemplatively.

“Surely that’s Ferelden’s problem,” says Cullen.

“Says the only Fereldan in the room,” Varric mutters. Cassandra stifles a snort, kicks him in the ankle.

“The mission of the Inquisition is to restore order,” says Cassandra. “The Breach is a major problem, but a Tevinter incursion into the South would also be… disruptive.”

“To say the least,” says Leliana. “I cannot, however, understand the motivation behind it. A lone magister, taking a single keep and a hundred or so mages? Hardly a full-scale invasion.”

“Troubling nonetheless,” insists Josephine. “But we are quite limited in how to address it without worsening the situation with the Fereldans. The King gave them safe harbour and they have, in turn, removed his uncle from his home and turned part of his kingdom into a war zone.”

“Not all of the mages were happy about this Tevinter business,” says Varric. “In fact, a lot of them said they couldn’t remember agreeing to it, or work out when or how the Tevinters showed up, but didn’t feel like they had a choice but to go along.”

Cassandra drums her fingers on the table. “There are forms of blood magic which can alter people’s minds,” she says, frowning. “Alter memories, create visions, enslave the will of even the strongest.”

Leliana releases an unsteady breath. “Now that is a troubling scenario to consider.”

“Do you suppose,” says Josephine, “that King Alistair might also consider it troubling?”

“Troubling enough to accept the assistance of the Inquisition to resolve matters, you mean?” Leliana’s mouth curls up, just a touch. “Yes, I think he could be convinced.”

“Then we are in agreement,” says Cassandra. “We will offer the Fereldans our assistance in retaking Redcliffe keep from invaders, and rescuing the mages who may have been made thralls or sold into unwilling servitude.”

“Sounds like a solid plan,” says Varric. “Way better than ‘take a ten-year-old to a remote location to meet our powerful enemy’, anyway.”

“If you do not mind, Leliana, I will leave the Fereldans in your capable hands,” says Josephine. “King Alistair is so terribly… jovial. I cannot seem to get a straight answer from him.”

“Really? I never have that trouble,” says Leliana serenely. Varric makes a mental note that she almost certainly has blackmail material on Fereldan royalty, and puts mental asterisks and exclamation points around his pre-existing mental note not to get on her bad side.

“I still think we should approach the Templars,” says Cullen.

++

“You just got back,” says Evie. “You just got back and you’re leaving again.”

“I am sorry,” says Cassandra gently. She’s loading up her horse, preparing for the trip to Denerim. “I know you do not like it, but you understand that we must help the mages who have been trapped.”

“I hate you,” says Evie.

“Evie,” says Varric, shocked.

Cassandra pauses, her face grave. “That is unkind of you,” she says eventually. “But I understand.”

“I do hate you,” says Evie again. Her face is screwed up and pink with anger. “I hate you. Don’t even come back, I’m never talking to you again.”

“I will come back,” says Cassandra. “I am not abandoning you.” She closes the strap on her saddlebag and picks up her coat. “You stay with Varric and be safe.”

“Don’t _go_ ,” wails Evie, and Cassandra sweeps her into what must be a very steely and heavily buckled hug.

“I hope you will keep writing to me,” says Cassandra. “Your letters are so lovely when I am away.”

“I will,” Evie sniffles. “And Varric too?”

“I guess I could be convinced,” says Varric. “You gotta let go of her, kid, come on.”

“If my mission goes well, I will see you soon,” says Cassandra. “Once we make Redcliffe safe, you could even meet us there, would you like that?”

Evie nods tearfully, and cries until Cassandra and her party - Vivienne, Leliana, and a visibly annoyed Sera - are out of sight, at which point she elects to give up moping and go play kickball with the other kids.

“Is it normal for kids to get so attached to grown-ups?” Iron Bull wonders. “I mean, the parent thing, sure, I can see that. But Cassandra ain’t even a tamassran or anything. That priest mostly takes care of the kid.”

“I think it’s normal,” says Varric. “Probably. Maybe?” He shrugs. “I don’t know that many kids, really.”

“Huh,” says Iron Bull. “You’d make a hell of a tamassran.”

Varric squints at him. “You’re shitting me.”

“Maybe a little.”

++

Dear Cassandra

It is VERY BORING here without you I wish you wouldn’t keep going away. It snowed again last night and now the snow is up to my chest and some of the tents collapsed during the night. Nobody was hurt but lots of people were cold and angry. Iron Bull and the Chargers spent all morning digging out paths between the buildings. Varric helped me to build a snow hut and tomorrow we’re going to put some towers and things to make it a castle. I got in trouble for throwing a snowball at Solas but Varric did FIRST and nobody shouted at him.

Mother Giselle is teaching about the fifth blight in lessons. She says it was the shortest blight ever even though there were only two wardens in the whole Fereldan and there was another civil war at the same time. The wardens came here to Haven where they worshipped a dragon. The Haven people not the wardens. The wardens killed the dragon. They took some of the sacred ashes to heal the king’s uncle, only he wasn’t the king then, and not really his uncle, and a different uncle from the uncle who is the Arl now. The story was a bit confusing. I wonder what happened to the ashes after the explosion, maybe that’s what Leliana was looking for up there.

When you meet King Alistair can you please ask him if the ashes are still in the temple or if they got taken somewhere else. Except after you ask him about the mages in Redcliffe because that’s probably more important.

Varric says to say hello for him but I told him to write his own letter because I am not his social secretary. I heard lady Josie say that to Count Demer who told her to write to his wife and tell her something about the inquisition. I’m not sure what a social secretary is, don’t tell Varric, he went very red when I said it. So I am not saying hello from Varric. I am saying hello from Iron Bull though. Come back soon, I miss you.

Love Evie.

++

Seeker-

Writing to you on instruction from the Blessed Child herself. Remember when she couldn’t make eye contact with anyone in armour? How times have changed. She sassed me today when I asked her to convey my greetings, it was amazing.

Haven remains cold and snowbound. The most exciting thing to happen is a shipment of pickled fruit from Antiva, which is being efficiently turned into pies as I write. There was a snowball fight. One of the stable cats had kittens.

Enjoy Denerim.

-V.

++

Dear Evie,

If you are curious about the history of the Fifth Blight, you might try asking Leliana when we return. She does not often speak of it, but she also travelled with the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight. She and King Alistair are good friends even now; when we arrived at the palace yesterday he picked her up and squeezed her tight and she did not stab him, which was fairly remarkable.

I am sorry to tell you that the ashes were never removed from the temple and were certainly destroyed in the explosion. It is one more thing which was lost that day. I hope it will comfort you to know that Most Holy was determined that the urn never be used again as the Hero of Fereldan did; it was to be an object of veneration only, not used as a curative for illnesses as if it were distilled elfroot. I confess I argued with Divine Justinia about this, and Leliana was quite cross with me. But the ashes did not only cure one single man of a mysterious illness; they were used to raise an army to fight darkspawn in a hopeless time. I think that we could not have allowed them to be used for any lesser purpose in the future. It is a moot point now, in any case.

I am glad you are enjoying the snow. I have never liked it myself as I get much too cold and stiffen up like an icicle. It never snows in Nevarra, and the first time I came south I thought it was wonderful and lovely until I got terribly sick, and now it is only weather.

I think perhaps you should avoid making Solas part of your games. Remember that games are only fun if everybody playing is having fun, otherwise it is bothersome at best and cruel at worst. With that in mind you can certainly throw as many snowballs as you like at Varric, or Iron Bull and his company, and perhaps Josephine when she is not too busy.

We will be in Denerim for another few days, and then we proceed to Redcliffe. I do not expect our business there will take long so I should see you before the month is out. Be well.

Love Cassandra.

++

Varric,

Thank you for the update on the weather and other conditions in Haven. Please ensure Evie is wearing sufficiently warm gloves and boots when she is playing in the snow and that she is not getting into snowball fights she cannot handle.

King Alistair and Queen Anora have been very welcoming, though the Arl was inclined to blame the Inquisition for being turned out of his castle for some reason. Nevertheless we have come to an accord - Leliana is sending a more detailed plan to Cullen. The discussion of the particular magic the Tevinters appear to be using has caused great concern here, and the Fereldans are extremely eager to see the matter under control. I feel this bodes well for us.

-Cassandra.

++

Cassandra

The fucking Magister took Evie. Some screwy time magic thing, was halfway back to Lake Calenhad before we realised she was gone. The other mage - Pavus - showed up just too late to warn us, something about a ritual? Sounds bad. Cullen is saddling up the troops and we will meet you in Redcliffe as soon as possible. Bring the King’s army please.

V

 


	7. Chapter 7

One day Varric will probably write a story about smuggling the King of Ferelden into Redcliffe Castle. A funny story, full of derring-do and hilarious mishaps and a clean easy triumph over a wicked magister.

Ahead, Leliana cuts a throat in a single smooth movement. Cassandra helps her lower the body to the ground without a single clink of plate. They move on, each stepping carefully over the spreading pool of blood. Varric in the middle with the King, Iron Bull behind. A half-dozen silent operatives follow at the rear.

They hear Dorian Pavus before they make it anywhere the grand hall, performing a great speech as if he's waiting for applause. Between his theatrics and the two armies marching up and down outside the gates, the Tevinters are well and truly distracted.

“I think Uncle Teagan has redone the cellars,” murmurs the King. “They're larger, surely.”

“I agree,” says Leliana, instead of hushing him. Her hands are steady on her bow. “Perhaps he has taken up wine collecting?”

“Shh,” says Cassandra.

The grand hall is lined with pillars to interrupt sight lines, tapestries and carpets to muffle footsteps, and guards carefully and correctly facing inward with their backs exposed. In the centre of the room, Dorian Pavus commands every eye with every gesture of his staff and flick of his glittery robe. Magister Alexius looks disgusted, and his son stands, looking pale, with his body angled carefully between the Magister and -

Evie, pale and drawn, but alive. Unbound and upstanding, not visibly harmed, still dressed in the winter fur Cassandra had bought her in Val Royeaux. By her side is an exhausted-looking Grand Enchanter Fiona, one hand gripping Evie’s shoulder tightly as if she’ll fight anyone who tries to come near her.

“You cannot understand!” Alexius snarls. “You, who have renounced your kin! You have no conception what I would sacrifice!”

“An innocent child, apparently,” drawls Pavus.

“She is a thief!” says Alexius. “And she shall know the punishment of the Elder One!”

“Now!” says Leliana, and around twenty things happen at once.

Leliana’s agents move swiftly and silently to take out the guards. Iron Bull helps, much less silently.

Alexius the Younger moves immediately to shield Evie and Fiona, bless his heart, and Fiona pulls Evie into an embrace and gets a pretty solid-looking barrier up. Cassandra charges in that direction, and Varric resists the urge to follow her, choosing instead to train Bianca directly between Alexius’ eyes.

“We have you surrounded,” says Alistair, in a voice that carries and booms. “Unless the magisterium want all-out war with Ferelden, surrender. Now.”

“I will not be denied!” shrieks Alexius, and then -

He turns and throws something at Evie - or does he lose his grip on it?

Pavus cries out in something like a panic and throws a bolt of magic -

Fiona’s barrier collapses, Felix staggers and flings his arms out -

There’s an explosion, or a collision, and a tear in the world, a knife-bright burst of something Varric hasn’t the magic to see and Cassandra goes flying -

And then nothing.

Evie, Fiona, and Felix are gone, and where they stood there is not even a smear on the floor.

For several heartbeats, the grand hall is damn near silent.

“Oh, shit,” says Pavus, and Alexius makes a hoarse, horrified noise and goes to his knees.

“My son,” he croaks. “My son. Felix, what have you done.”

“Evie,” says Cassandra hauling herself to her feet despite the blood all over her face, “What have you done with her?”

“Felix,” whimpers Alexius.

Varric’s heart is in his throat, his head clamoring with panic. Evie had been right there, close enough to reach out and touch, and then she was just - not. His thoughts are scattering - the Breach, the war, the Inquisition - Evie, Evie, Evie. The end of the world.

There is a crack, glimmer in the air, and a tidy seam opens up where the gaping wound that swallowed three people had been. Felix Alexius stumbles out, and then the Grand Enchanter, with an armful of -

“Evie!” cries Cassandra.

Varric boldly abandons sense and dashes for the child, but is arrested by the sight of Fiona, blood-spattered and visibly injured, Felix clutching his ribs and rattling as he breathes. Evie’s missing her fur coat, and her clothes are torn and soiled, and when she looks up, there’s blood on her face and tears in her eyes and something horribly blank in her expression.

“She is well,” says Fiona. “She isn’t harmed.”

But when Cassandra reaches for Evie she shies away, stiff and protesting. “The red,” she says faintly. “You’re all red.”

++

It is with poor grace that Arl Teagan grants the Inquisition officers rooms in his castle, allows the soldiers to remain camped about the village. He could hardly do less, given their efforts alongside the King to free his castle, but he looks profoundly sour about the whole affair. Around nightfall, the Queen turns up, and almost nobody has the energy to do anything other than stare at her, baffled, as she sweeps into the receiving room where they’re sitting around watching Dorian and Felix draw diagrams.  
“Anora,” says Alistair, half-laughing, half-groaning. “We agreed you’d stay in Denerim.”

“Until it was safe, yes,” agrees Anora. “It is safe, isn’t it, my king?” She bats her eyelashes at him, smirking.

Alistair goes hilariously pink. “Yes,” he says. “Obviously.”

“Your Majesty,” says Leliana, “I must apologise for any part the Inquisition has played in this unfortunate matter.”

“Other than setting up a private army on our sovereign soil?” says Anora mildly.

“I do beg your pardon,” says Leliana, equally mild. “I understood that the crown had granted the land around Haven to the Chantry for its use.”

“Oh, I had thought that the Chantry has denounced the Inquisition. I must have misheard.”

“Oh dear,” says Leliana. “No, you see, the Chantry is in no position to denounce anything, as all official pronouncements must be ratified by the Divine. The Inquisition is in fact carrying out the standing orders of Divine Justinia, and therefore acts with her authority.”

“Gracious,” says Anora sweetly. “How convenient for the Inquisition.”

“Both of you stop,” says Alistair bluntly, to Varric’s disappointment. “We’re not retreading this ground again. I can’t deal with politics and time travel all in one day.”

“Time travel?” says Anora, visibly derailed.

“It’s a closed loop!” says Dorian excitedly. “Pleasure, madam. Dorian of House Pavus.”

“That is not a helpful metaphor, Dorian,” says Felix wearily. He’s reclining on a couch with a cool cloth over his eyes.

“I’m gonna check on Evie,” says Varric to nobody in particular, and slips out. Dorian’s explanations of time travel make his head hurt. All he knows is, Evie, Fiona and Felix were gone from the grand hall for the space of a few panicked breaths, but they were somewhere else for much, much longer.

“A day?” Fiona had said, shrugging. “Day and a half? We were deep underground for much of it, it is difficult to say.” She had been scrubbing at her fingernails with a brush, placid. “It does explain a great deal that has been puzzling me about Alexius.”

Evie hadn’t said anything. Cassandra had sent Varric away so Evie could bathe and dress, but the kid had been alarmingly vacant-eyed and had gone unprotestingly to bed in the small room set aside for visitors not important enough for guest quarters in the family wing.

Cassandra isn’t there when Varric inches open the door, and Evie isn’t sleeping. She’s crouched by the banked fire with a blanket around her shoulders like a cape.

“Hey, Nugget,” says Varric.

“I had a bad dream,” says Evie.

“Well, that’s no good,” says Varric. He sits down beside her with a huff of discomfort, extends his aching feet towards the warmth. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Evie huddles further into her blanket. “I don’t wanna sleep. There’s demons in the fade.”

Varric is profoundly out of his depth. “That sounds pretty scary.”

“They’re waiting until I close my eyes. Until I forget. And then they’ll get me. And the Templars will kill me or Tranquil me.”

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” says Varric. “No Templars, promise.”

“But what if I turn into an Abomination.”

“That isn’t going to happen. I know you had a scary day, Evie-girl, but you’re safe now, I promise.”

“There were lots of demons,” says Evie. “The Breach was so big that whole world was going to fall into the fade and get swallowed up.”

Varric’s heart is breaking a little. Evie doesn’t even sound particularly frightened, just blankly dreamy. “Hey, Bright-Eyes. You remember when Solas helped you to close those rifts on the mountain?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, the Breach is just like a big one of those rifts. So Fiona and her mages are going to help you close it up, just like that.”

“Oh,” says Evie, and pops her head out of the blankets to squint suspiciously at him. “No, I already tried, I couldn’t.”

“That’s why we need the mages, to give you an extra boost.”

“It won’t work,” says Evie.

“How do you know.”

“It won’t.”

“I think it’ll work,” says Varric. “I don’t know much about magic, but some very smart people reckon it will.”

“It won’t,” says Evie, and suddenly her voice cracks and she’s shouting. “It won’t work! I know because I saw, I saw what is happening in a year and the Breach is swallowing the whole world, that’s how I know!” She dissolves into tears, and Varric pulls her into his lap and hugs her hard.

“Evie-girl,” he sings to her, tuneless. “Evie-Evie-Evie, hush now. Do you know, Dorian has been trying to explain this to me all afternoon? I’m not very good at explaining, but I’ll try. Imagine that you disappeared, Evie-girl. You went away, you weren’t here anymore, and all the world went to shit. Demons and rifts and crap everywhere, all ‘cause we didn’t have our Evie and her magic hand. And then you popped up a year later and saw the world that happened with no Evie there, and it was pretty horrible.”

“It was,” Evie gets out between sobs.

“Well, I have good news for you. That world happened because of no-Evie. But what’s this I’ve got right here?” He gives her a squeeze and shake. “Is that Evie? Safe and sound?”

“But the future,” says Evie.

“Nope, that’s the no-Evie future. The future with Evie is way better. Wanna hear about it?” He shifts his weight, and leans back against the chair behind him. “We’ll close the breach. Sharpish. Snap, closed. Then we’ll probably have a party. Some dancing and stuff. We’ll probably go back to Orlais for a while, because Cassandra will want to attend the election of the new Divine. We can get those pastries you like, and I’ll get some new boots and books and maybe a new string for Bianca. And then I think the King and Queen of Ferelden will want us to visit them, because we’re going to be great friends, let me tell you.”

Evie’s shudders are calming. Varric strokes his fingers carefully through her limp hair. “What if we can’t?” she mumbles.

“Then we’ll go talk to the Templars wherever they’re holed up,” says Varric. “I know you don’t like Templars, Evie-girl, but Cullen’s got this theory about them suppressing the Breach so you can close it. Don’t you worry, Cassandra will be there, and if the Templars have got any sense they’ll mind their manners.”

Evie sniffles and rubs her cheek against Varric’s shoulder. “Maybe the mages will work.”

“That’s the spirit,” says Varric.

Evie sleeps, eventually, and Varric tucks her in and leaves her with her eyelids twitching in that unsettling way he’s come to learn means “dreaming” in those races which dream. Sera is leaning against the wall in the dim corridor outside Evie’s room when he emerges, examining an arrow point with apparent fascination.

“Finally dropped off, eh? Poor tyke.”

“Yes?” says Varric. Sera’s sneaky; he hadn’t heard a peep from her out here.

“I’ll keep an ear out, then,” says Sera. “You go on, Lady Princess Seeker wants you in with all the nobs.”

“Right,” says Varric. “Come get me if she wakes?”

“What, like I can’t soothe the sproglet? You don’t even dream, short stuff, what would you know from nightmares.”

“Fine.”

“Well, fine.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

After their precipitous departure from Haven and wild ride to Redcliffe, it’s jarring to have time to recover, to sit and plan their next move. While most of the army - both armies - pick up and start making tracks back to their respective bases, Evie’s in no condition to travel, so Varric’s not going anywhere, and from what he’s heard, the King has been sitting in one of the stable lofts for most of the morning, attending to his correspondence and dropping things on the heads of passers-by. Leliana has left a hutch of ravens and gone with Cullen back to Haven; Vivienne is taking the opportunity to cosy up to a rather bemused Queen Anora. Varric has to respect a good social climber.

“Bored,” Sera announces. “Come down to the docks, sweets. Bet I can nick you something pretty, eh?”

“No thanks,” says Evie. She’s curled up in a window seat, looking down over the lake, listless.

“Suit yourself,” says Sera. “Short stuff?”

“Buttercup?”

“C’mon, then.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Redcliffe village is still reeling from the mage-templar war - magister invasion - Inquisition-Ferelden re-invasion situation of the past few months. The pub is open, and the Chantry, but the docks are still quiet, only a handful of small fishing boats sorting the morning’s haul.

“Fecking time travel,” says Sera, and skips a rock across the water crankily. “Makes my frigging head hurt.”

Varric murmurs something agreeable.

‘Why do frigging arse mages hafta ruin everything anyway. Could’ve had a good in to the palace, right, but that King turned out to be an okay guy.”

“That must frustrate you.”

“Nobs aren’t decent! Raised in a stable, my arse. And she’s all… pretty. And stuff.”

Varric squints at her. “It’s hard being you.”

“Right?”

Far down the end of the docks, a mage is doing a very poor job of breaking into a shack. Varric and Sera watch him for a minute, as he fiddles fruitlessly with the door, then stands back and looks like he’s considering blowing it off its hinges.

“Should we help him?” says Sera. Varric scratches his ear. “Or… stop him? The Inquisition’s all about, like, stopping crime and stuff, right?”

“I wonder what one of Fiona’s mages is doing sneaking around down here?” says Varric. “Yeah, let’s.”

“Help him or stop him?”

“Put him out of his misery. Either way, I don’t think he’s destined for a life of crime.”

The mage - a kid barely into adulthood, if Varric’s guess is right - is called Connor, and when they confront him he goes crimson but doesn’t back down.

“Those Tevinter mages were keeping things in here,” he tells them. “Some magical artifacts or something. I wasn’t going to steal them, I was going to make sure they weren’t dangerous for the people of Redcliffe.”

“That’s very noble of you,” says Varric.

“Could be worth something,” says Sera hopefully.

“Could be more freaky time magic shit,” Varric points out, starting on the lock.

“Ugh, pass.”

“Time magic?” says Connor hesitantly. “There were rumours this morning, but I didn’t think -”

The lock is surprisingly tricky: high end for such a run-down building. It takes him a couple of tries, and it shocks him a couple of times. Failing wards, probably. It’s damn hard to put up a magical barrier to last more than a few hours, but some idiots try anyway.

Sera is rambling about arsehole mages and arsehole time magic and Connor looks as stunned as if he’s been charged by a druffalo, and then the door is open. Sera gives a shriek of disgust.

“Are those frigging skeletons?”

Varric advances cautiously into the dim. “Just skulls, I think.”

“Oh, Andraste,” mutters the mage, but he follows. Kid’s got more balls than Varric suspected.

There’s perhaps fifty or sixty skulls on the shelves and tables, all stripped clean of flesh. Around half of them have the engravings and jewels implanted that match the creepy device Solas had been so fascinated by.

“For… for finding?” mutters Connor, not quite touching some of the runes. “For making… seen…”

“Whose heads are these?” says Sera. “Or. Were.”

Notes scattered on a table. “Dunno,” says Varric. “But I’m guessing they didn’t volunteer.” A few words catch his eye, precise, clinical instructions in numbered lists. “Aw, shit.”

“What?” says Connor, coming and peering over his shoulder. “Oh. Oh no. They’re Tranquil?”

“I’m going to go,” says Sera unsteadily. “Back to - away from all the creepy Tranquil skulls looking at me.”

“What the hell could be so important that they’d murder dozens of innocents to find it?” Varric wonders. “Wait, Magisters. Nevermind. They’d murder dozens of innocents to find a new place for dinner.”

Cassandra gets very quiet when she sees the skulls, and the air around Fiona turns literally blue with tightly-suppressed lightning. “I knew Alexius did not like the Tranquil,” she says quietly, “But I had assumed he sent them away because he was uncomfortable with the reminder. Not this.” Bright sparks flick from her fingertips. “Excuse me.”

“We will ensure that justice is done,” says Cassandra. “And that these - unfortunates - are properly seen to.” She turns to Varric. “Do not tell Evie about this,” she says.

“Obviously,” says Varric, but Cassandra shakes her head, urgent.

“You recall she wrote to us about her friend Niko, yes? I made some enquiries.”

“Oh, shit,” says Varric feelingly.

“The young man was made Tranquil just before the rebellion at Ostwick. It may have contributed to the collapse of the Circle there. There is no record of what became of him afterwards.”

“Oh, shit.” Varric covers his face with both hands. “We are not telling Evie about this.”

“No, we are not,” says Cassandra. “I will pursue this. Quietly.”

++

When Evie is stronger, they make their slow way back to Haven. Along the way, Evie insists that they stop to help search for a missing druffalo for one of Dennet’s neighbours.

“Is she serious,” sighs Vivienne, but Evie’s face when Iron Bull slings her onto the back of the patiently ambling creature is worth going a half-day out of their way.

“Be good, Druffy,” says Evie, once they’ve corralled the creature back in its pen. She puts her arms as far around its neck as she can. “I know it’s scary but it's best to stay where you’re safe and let your friends look after you, okay?”

Druffy whuffs an enormous grassy breath and nibbles meditatively at the end of Evie’s braid.

++

Despite the vast size of the Fereldan Hinterlands, they manage to somehow run across a half-dozen straggling bandit packs, a number of a wolves, a violently orange and preternaturally intelligent ram, and an itinerant Grey Warden on their way back to Haven. The Warden is the only one who tags along with them, fortunately.

“Are you really a Grey Warden though,” says Evie, her little legs skipping double-time to keep up with Blackwall’s steady stride.

“I - yes,” says Blackwall. “Of course I am.”

“Did you fight the Archdemon?”

“Teyrn Loghain closed the Fereldan border during the Blight,” says Blackwall. “We couldn’t get in to fight the Archdemon.”

“Oh,” says Evie. “King Alistair fought the Archdemon.” She looks thoughtful. “Could you kill an Archdemon, do you reckon?”

“I reckon I could,” says Blackwall. “If it came to that, aye.”

“Alright then,” says Evie. “Bull! Bull! Blackwall reckons he could kill an Archdemon, do you think you could kill an Archdemon?”

Bull hollers something in Qunlat that seems to be an affirmative; to which Sera makes a rude noise.

“Yeah, nah, I’ve actually seen an Archdemon, pointy -”

“It’s just a dragon,” Bull Insists, “a big ol’ blighted one, but a dragon, right?”

“Dragon with an army,” mutters Sera.

The argument lasts until they make camp that night, and keeps the whole party relatively entertained in the meantime. When Evie tires of walking, Bull swings her onto his shoulders without breaking his stride; deposits her on the front of Cassandra’s horse a little later. They haven’t got enough horses for everyone to ride, so their pace is slow, but there’s no immediate urgency. It will be weeks before the full contingent of Fiona’s rebels makes it to Haven. They can take their time on the road.

++

To everyone’s surprise, closing the Breach is relatively straightforward and accomplished with none of the reams of contingency plans Solas has been feverishly devising. Evie swoons a little, but pops back up a moment later with wide, astonished eyes, and starts smacking Varric on the arm in her excitement.

“It worked!” she crows, “I did it!”

“Yeah, you did,” says Varric. He’d hug her, but she starts to hop from one foot to the other, squeaking with glee and making up a happy little song.

“I did it, I did it, I did it!”

 


	9. Chapter 9

The dragon is an unpleasant surprise.

“What the shit,” pants Iron Bull, shouldering the Chantry door closed behind them.

“That was not a normal dragon,” says Cassandra.

“Those soldiers,” says Sera, and kicks the door. “Did you see, they had, they had bits! Growing out their heads!”

“Red lyrium,” says Varric heavily. “Not good.”

The Chantry is packed with terrified villagers, a din of panicked voices and wailing children. Evie is among them, pale but composed, with her arm around a smaller, sobbing child.

A thump on the door and it eases open a crack to admit Krem and the Chargers, weapons bloodied, and Chancellor Roderick, propped up by the odd, pale boy from the gates, who had tried to warn them.

“Army’s on the move again,” Krem reports briefly. “Took out the bulk with that last shot, I’d say, but they’re still coming.”

“He’s coming for the child,” agrees the pale boy.

“You mean Evie,” says Cassandra, low. “He cannot have her. Under no circumstances.”

“He’s very angry that she took his gift,” says the boy. “Sorry. I don’t think he’ll stop until he has her.” The door opens again, and the blacksmith enters, swearing.

“We have no hope of winning this,” says Cullen frankly. “We must -”

“Besides anything else, we have a responsibility to these people,” says Cassandra, over the top of him, “There are children here, and injured -”

“There is a secret path,” Roderick grinds out. The wet sound of his breathing says he’s dying. “We could escape, if only there is a distraction -”

“No!” says the pale boy, a bright cry of alarm. For a wild moment, Varric thinks he is rejecting Roderick’s escape plan, but the door closes with a heavy thud and the kid is scampering for it. “Come back!” he cries, wrenching it open again.

But Evie is little and quick, and is vanishing already into the gloom.

“Fuck it,” Varric snarls, and goes after her.

++

Haven burns.

Through the smoke, there are Templars, bodies deformed by the red crystals. Overhead, the dragon, also twisted and somehow wrong.

He can’t find Evie.

There’s a deep, resonant crack as something explodes, spewing more smoke and flames in the air; Cassandra shouts something Varric can’t hear over the ringing in his ears. The gates are closed, so Evie can’t have left the village proper. He hammers a snarling red Templar between the eyes and watches him fall.

“Over here!” calls the pale boy, a wraith of smoke and snow. The path up to the last trebuchet, a spreading pool of blood, the boy’s knives. “She’s very frightened, breathless, bolting, my fault, my failure. Again, again, every time it burns.”

“I see her!” hollers Bull. In the distance, past the trebuchet, a tiny figure, fleeing as fast as her little legs can carry her.

“Evie!” Varric shouts. His voice cracks. “Evie, come back here!”

“That army’s coming this way,” says Cassandra. “We’ll be overrun.”

“I’ll get the trebuchet,” says Bull. “You get the kid.”

The dragon lands between them and Evie with a shockwave that sends them flying to the ground.

“Too late,” says the boy with the knives.

“Bull!” says Cassandra. “Trebuchet, now!”

“Right, boss!”

Varric and Cassandra skirt the dragon warily, but its attention is focussed entirely on the scene playing out: the Elder One, a towering, malformed, horribly familiar thing, and Evie dangling from his grasp like a hooked fish.

Varric can’t make out the words, but Evie suddenly comes to life, thrashing and twisting, her high-pitched wails carrying across the snow.

“Varric,” says Cassandra.

“Yeah,” says Varric, lining up the shot. “Let me just-”

Evie’s foot, absurdly, catches the darkspawn creature in the face, and he snarls something and hurls her away with horrifying strength. She hits a tree and tumbles down into a snowbank out of sight.

The trebuchet fires.

The Elder One and his dragon both look up as the mountain begins to shake. “Get to Evie,” says Varric. “I’ll cover you.” But he only gets off a single shot before the dragon is airborne, a couple of sweeps of its wings taking it and its master beyond even Bianca’s reach.

“Take cover!” Bull is shouting, but there isn’t any cover, and even Cassandra’s long stride hasn’t covered half the distance to Evie yet.

“Down!” says a voice in his ear, and Varric dives down the hill towards the treeline, and then the avalanche hits.

++

“I found a cave,” Bull announces when he pulls Varric out of the snow.

“Awesome,” says Varric sourly. The trees and bushes had formed enough of a break that Varric, while completely buried, was able to keep himself a little breathing hole, and burrow his way out of the mess. Bull’s tracked him down before he can get himself completely free, probably with the help of the strange pale boy who’s now watching them both with bright, attentive eyes.

“You hurt?” says Bull, setting Varric on his feet and dusting him off.

Varric is entirely made of bruises, and definitely has broken at least three ribs and possibly dislocated his shoulder. “Fine,” he says shortly. “The Seeker? Evie?”

“No sign,” says Bull. “But this storm’s looking to get real bad. We have to find shelter.”

“We have to find the others.”

“Can’t get this fire lit,” says the boy suddenly. “Damn, damn, so cold, so small, fingers blue, breathing shallow, have to get the fire going.”

“We gotta get to shelter first, big guy,” says Bull.

“Yes,” says the boy, and then, to Varric: “Cole’s my name. That’s easier. I said it before but maybe you didn’t hear.”

“I may have been briefly unconscious,” says Varric.

“No, you were panicking,” says Cole. “It’s alright.”

“The cave is this way,” says Bull. “No, listen, Varric. We’ll never find them in this. They survived or they didn’t, and now we have to survive.”

The wind is tearing and icy, the snow blowing practically horizontally. He stares at Bull. “You bastard.”

“Yep,” says Bull. “You coming or am I carrying you?”

The cave isn’t far, though after the avalanche the ground is an unsteady slush of loose snow and rubble and the rising storm makes it almost impossible to see further than a few paces away. Bull blazes a trail through sheer breadth, and Varric plods along behind him. Cole, impossibly, wanders over the top of the slush on light feet. They dig out the entrance and crowd in out of the storm.

It’s little more than a crack in the rock face, but Varric stamps his feet on the ground, kicks the wall, and says “Come on, there’s more room further back.”

“I dunno,” says Bull dubiously. His horns are already scraping the top of the cave.

“You can duck,” says Varric. “There’s a tunnel.”

“Stone singing,” murmurs Cole. “Stone in the blood, in the dark, an instinct deeper than sunlight.”

Varric hisses through his teeth. “Don’t say shit like that. It’s not a dwarfy thing, okay? I can hear the echoes.”

“The deep dark,” says Cole agreeably. “Oh, there’s smoke.”

The smoky smell doesn’t fade as they get deeper, winding their slow way into the rock. The tunnel connects to another tunnel, heavily tramped-down with footprints.

“I guess they found the back way out,” says Varric. That’s - good.

“And the back way in, out of the storm,” says Cole. “Got the fire going, get her warm, fingers too cold, am I doing it right, wake _up_.”

“What,” says Bull flatly.

What becomes clear when the oppressive darkness eases somewhat, and the shifting shadows of a smoky fire play across the walls, and they round a bend to find Cassandra crouched by a small fire, with her armour in a pile beside her and Evie in her arms.

“You survived!” she gasps as they run up to her. “When I saw the rubble I was so sure -”

“We’re fine, Seeker,” says Varric. “How’s our girl?”

“Unconscious,” says Cassandra tightly. “She will not wake, her arm is broken, and she was buried in the snow for some time before I found her. She is freezing and she may have other injuries, I cannot tell.”

Evie is pale and tiny in Cassandra’s arms, bleeding sluggishly from a cut in her forehead. Her lips are purple.

“I’m gonna see if I can find some more fuel for the fire,” says Iron Bull awkwardly. Cole crouches by the fire, ghostly and silent. Varric winces as he pulls off his jacket to drape over Evie, ribs protesting the whole time, and pokes gingerly at his swollen shoulder.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got any elfroot potion on you, Seeker,” he says, and she shakes her head.

“I should have remembered to pick some up when we were in the Chantry,” she says. “But when Evie ran off, I -”

“Panicked, yeah,” says Varric. “Me too.” He sits down cautiously, trying not to put any pressure on any of his ribs, and failing. “You hurt?”

Cassandra shrugs. “Bruises only.”

“Came out clean, then.”

Bull comes back with some smashed-up mine struts that hopefully weren’t important to the structural integrity of their current camp or exit. “Storm’s wild,” he reports, “But I think it won’t last. Might be able to leave by dawn.”

“Here’s hoping,” says Varric, and a silence falls over them.

Around the time the howling outside begins to subside and thin light starts filtering in from down the tunnel, Evie stirs and murmurs “Mama?”

Cassandra cups her head and says “No, dear one. Do not try to move.” No fear of that; Evie grumbles something and slips back under.

“The sky is clear now,” says Cole, slipping out of the shadows. “But the snow has covered all the ways through.”

“My time to shine,” says Bull, and they haul themselves upright, kick out the fire, and gird themselves as best as possible for the freezing mountain outside.

Cassandra carries Evie, wrapped in Varric’s coat. Iron Bull forges ahead, making a path with the width of his body and the strength of his legs, and Varric follows behind him, stamping the snow down flat with his boots for Cassandra’s weary feet. Evie doesn’t stir, tucked in tight against Cassandra.

“Only a little further,” says Cole, and even Varric now can see the tracks, dozens of weary feet. Bull only grunts, but Cassandra pulls in a long breath and hitches Evie higher against her, rallying briefly.

When they round an outcropping of rock and see the hodge-podge camp before them, Varric gets his good shoulder under Cassandra before her knees can give out, and they sink to the snow with Evie limp between them.


	10. Chapter 10

Varric’s first sight of Skyhold comes late. He’s trailing at the back of the convoy, behind the brontos with their scant cargo and the families clinging to one another, keeping a careful eye out for the wolves he’s been hearing at night. A cry goes up ahead, and for a moment he is on high alert, scanning for threats, but there is an air of relief and amazement to the shouting, and the people ahead are picking up the pace, suddenly eager. When it eventually comes in view, Varric has to squint to see it, far off in the breathtakingly clear mountain air, with the sun blinding off the snow and his hair blowing in his face. It looks tiny, and far-away, and very, very remote, and Varric shifts his weight from foot to aching foot, and sighs.

From first sight, it’s further than it looks across the ravines and sheer, steep cliffs. Solas has been directing the journey through the mountains so far, with apparently no more than a memory of a journey - he’s been unclear about how, exactly, he knows of the long-abandoned keep in the mountain.  The whole caravan grinds to a halt while Cassandra and Harding scout ahead, picking a tentative path to safety.

“How are you doing, Nugget?” Evie shrugs from her perch atop a bronto: there’s a smaller child in front of her and woman astride behind her with an infant strapped to her back. The bronto appears unbothered.

“‘M fine,” she says. She puts her cheek against the dark hair of the boy in front of her. “Are we going again?”

“Pretty soon,” says Varric. “Did you see the keep?”

“I think so,” Evie replies. “It’s far.”

“Pretty far,” says Varric. “Might make it by nightfall.”

“Mmmf,” says Evie, and closes her eyes. She looks weary and dispirited, as she has done since she woke in the snowy, starving camp some days ago.

They do not make it by nightfall that day, nor the next. On the third day they find the surprisingly well-preserved remains of an ancient road, which takes them smoothly right up to the front gate and deposits the hungry, exhausted remnants of the Inquisition in the muddy courtyard of an eerily abandoned keep.

The first weeks at Skyhold are bitter, lean weeks, huddling in the wreckage of the parts of the keep deemed safe and rationing what meat they manage to hunt. Their saving grace turns out to be the curious warmth of Skyhold: snow piles up waist-deep on the road outside and icicles crack in the freezing air, but even in the open courtyard of Skyhold it is never more than briskly chilly. The survivors can turn their efforts to food and healing rather than scrambling for enough firewood to keep from freezing, though they end up having to slaughter one of the remaining brontos before supplies arrive.

Scout Harding and Corporal Vale are hailed as heroes when they arrive at the head of a veritable caravan of supply wagons, with the promise of more to come. The road which had taken the survivors straight to Skyhold had taken a smaller party of scouts south and eventually east into Orlais, where a mid-size town not far from Halamshiral had taken the news that they were about to get a shitload of trade with relative aplomb.

Then the pilgrims start arriving, and it’s as if the whole Inquisition changes key. Or starts a whole new song. Varric spends a fair bit of time trying to figure out how to describe it; how to put into words the shift from a scrappy little band of misfits and outcasts to something with its own momentum, something charging into the history books for better or for worse. He doesn’t know how to take it.

He doesn’t have Cassandra’s problems, though.

“They are making me Inquisitor,” she says, clutching a flask in one hand and a sword in the other. The crumbling dungeons are probably not the safest place for someone as high-strung as Cassandra to be having a crisis of confidence over strong liquor, but here they are.

“Yeah, that seems like a logical next step,” says Varric, sitting gingerly down opposite her on a lump of stone which looks like it won’t cause the whole thing to collapse.

“You are mad,” says Cassandra. “Or making fun of me.”

“Okay, who do you think should be in charge?”

Cassandra stares mulishly at the wall. “Someone else.”

“Sure,” says Varric. “But until they get here, we kind of need a leader.”

She squints at him. “We?”

He prods her with his foot. “What, you think I’m that easy to get rid of? Yeah, we. The Inquisition. You started this, remember? No better candidate for Inquisitor than you.”

“Uggggh,” she says in response, and he pats her on the shoulder as she takes another swig from the flask and heaves herself to her feet.

The day that Cassandra is officially announced as the Inquisitor, Hawke arrives in another caravan of pilgrims and adventurers. Cloaked and hooded, travel-worn and dirty, she scares the life out of him by pouncing on him from behind. Varric almost stabs her.

“Maker’s balls,” he gasps, getting her in an arm lock. “You’re a menace.”

“You missed me,” she informs him, wriggling free and scruffing his hair. “Your life has been empty and cold without me.”

“Well, you’re not wrong. Come over here before somebody sees you.”

“Wait, am I still wanted by the Chantry?” She follows willingly as he leads her up onto the parapets.

“Not - exactly?” The complications had only occurred to Varric recently. “It’s just, I told the Inquisitor that I had no idea where you were and couldn’t possibly get in contact with you.”

Hawke looks hugely entertained. “Was this before or after you sent the letter urgently telling me to get my ass to Haven?”

“Oh, before,” he says. “Before any of this shit. Only I never, uh, corrected that little falsehood.”

“You’re going to be in trou-ble,” Hawke sing-songs. “Seriously, is she going to kill me? Because I will sneak myself back down this mountain if so. It’s been ages since anyone tried to kill me and I’ve got used to it.”

“No, we need you. The Inquisition needs you, I mean, because - shit, I forgot to tell you.”

Hawke curses a flaming blue streak when she hears the name Corypheus, and then gets very, very quiet when she hears about the dragon, and the army of blighted templars. “There was also some Tevinter time magic,” says Varric, “but I’m not clear if that’s related, or just an opportunist.”

“Let’s run away to Rivain,” says Hawke. “No templars in Rivain.”

“Sure,” says Varric. “I just gotta do a couple of things first.”

“There you are!” says Evie, popping up onto the small overlook where they’ve stationed themselves. “I couldn’t find you and Cassandra’s busy and Bull’s helping esca- excavating the pub and Sera’s gone somewhere.”

“Here I am,” says Varric, beckoning her over. “How are you feeling, Nugget?”

“Good,” says Evie. “Krem says he can teach me how to stab a man in the knee so he never walks again. I took a nap. And there’s roast boar for dinner, and carrots.”

“A pretty good day, overall,” says Varric. Evie’s been restless and unhappy since Haven, and he can’t blame her, but she’s been steadying the last couple of days. “Come say hi to my friend Hawke.”

Evie leans against his shoulder, wide-eyed and shy. “Hawke the Champion?” she asks. “Like the book?”

“I didn’t know you read my books, Nugget.”

“Niko had a copy,” says Evie. “He read to us after lights out. I liked the parts with the dog, and when you kept finding trousers.”

“What a brilliantly discerning child,” says Hawke, grinning. “We are going to be great friends.”

“Hawke, this is Evie. She likes dogs and surprise snowball attacks.”

“And chocolate,” says Evie. “Is the paint real or does it wash off?”

“It’s been that long since I washed my face it’s probably permanent,” says Hawke.

“Hawke’s come to help us with what we’re doing,” says Varric. “Can you go find Cassandra and ask her to come up here?” Maybe if Evie’s the one delivering the news about Varric’s lies, she’ll take it better.

“Is it a secret?” asks Evie shrewdly, and Hawke cackles with glee.

“No, but it might be a good idea to be discreet. Can you be discreet?” Evie looks uncertain, but nods and dashes off.

“I’m fairly sure she has no idea what discreet actually means,” says Hawke, watching her go. “Are you going to be in a lot of trouble?”

“She won’t actually kill me,” says Varric. “She has to maintain the respectability of the position.”

“But you don’t want her to be mad at you,” says Hawke, having apparently had one of the infuriating flashes of insight she gets at the worst possible times. “Ah, Varric, you’ve gone and made friends with the little Chantry dear, haven’t you? That is adorable. Another kitten for you to coddle.”

Varric stares at her. “Right. You haven’t met Cassandra. This should be good.”

The Inquisitor and Right Hand of the Divine is a full head taller than Hawke, when she arrives on Evie’s heels, in full armour and still lugging the enormous two-hander Leliana had ceremonially dumped on her like she’s not sure what to do with it. She squints at Hawke uncertainly, and Varric can see the moment realisation comes over her; her face tightens with fury, and she turns her head away for a moment.

“Evie-girl,” he says, “thanks for bringing Cassandra. We have to talk about some stuff, can you go hang out with Bull for a while?”

“I can stay,” says Evie. “I can be quiet.”

“You had better go,” says Cassandra. “I am afraid there is going to be some shouting.”

“Oooh,” says Hawke, low. Varric kicks her.

Evie looks alarmed. “Is Varric in trouble?”

“Yeah, Nugget, some,” says Varric. “I did something dumb, the Seeker will yell at me, and then we’ll all be friends again, okay?” This doesn’t seem to settle Evie at all; she hesitates, looking pained, frantically glancing between Varric and Cassandra.

Cassandra sighs and kneels in front of her; puts a gentle hand on Evie’s shoulder. “I will come and find you in a moment,” she says. “We have Inquisition matters to discuss that you would find alarming, and then Varric and I must resolve a quarrel we are going to have, and I think you would find that upsetting as well.”

Evie’s chin is wobbling. “Don’t fight,” she says. “You shouldn’t fight.”

“It’ll be okay, Nugget,” says Varric. “You go find Bull, we won’t be long. Roast boar for dinner, right? Go on.”

Teary-eyed, Evie goes.

“Fuck me,” says Hawke, “you’re a proper dad.” Varric kicks her again.

In the end, they don’t have the fight that Evie had been so horrified to contemplate. Hawke and Cassandra have a congenial, productive conversation about the Grey Wardens and Corypheus and red-sodding-lyrium, and then Hawke wanders off to find a drink and something to flirt with, and Cassandra leans her great big sword against the parapet and rubs her head wearily.

“If it were not for Evie,” she says, “You would be out of the Inquisition. I might even have thrown you off the edge, here.”

Varric says, “In my defense, when I told you I didn’t know where Hawke was, you were holding me at swordpoint. I thought I was protecting her from torture.” He thinks for a moment and adds, “And I’m not easy to throw, Seeker. I’m pretty solid.”

“I am finding myself rather lacking in people I can trust,” she says, “right when I need them most.”

“Hey, that is  _ not  _ fair,” says Varric. “I hid Hawke from you, sure. But she’s only here now because I asked her to come. I’m willing to throw everything I’ve got behind this Inquisition, Cassandra, but I won’t apologise for protecting the people I care about. That doesn’t make me a liability.”

“Fine,” says Cassandra shortly. “I have said you can remain, and I am grateful for Hawke’s assistance. But do not ask me to be pleased at myself for trusting you so easily, Varric, not when I knew your true character from the beginning. I will not forget it again.”

Ouch.

There’s not much to say to that, so they go quietly down onto the lawn where, in the five minutes they’ve taken to have this conversation, Hawke has initiated an arm wrestling match with Iron Bull, adjudicated by Evie, with betting administered by Sera. Hawke’s pretty thick for a mage: the staff she wields is heavy and bladed, and she uses it as a club as much as to cast magic. But Iron Bull’s bicep is near as thick as her waist, and the match is obviously mostly for comedy, since Hawke is standing on the table tugging against Bull’s sturdy, unmoving arm with both hands and her full weight. As they approach, Hawke takes a dramatic pratfall onto the grass, and Evie runs to Varric to hug him anxiously and look between him and Cassandra.

Varric plasters on a smile. “All fixed up, no problems. Right, Seeker?”

“You have nothing to worry about,” says Cassandra gently, and touches Evie’s hair. “We have resolved our argument.”

Evie nods, though she continues to look uncertain and unhappy about the whole state of affairs. “And you won’t fight anymore.”

“Fighting’s okay,” says Varric. ‘We don’t always agree on stuff, that’s okay.”

Cassandra scowls, but says something reassuring to Evie that Varric doesn’t quite hear, because Hawke has snuck up behind him and whispers “Such a  _ dad _ ,” into his ear, making him jump and elbow her.


	11. Chapter 11

Cassandra leaves for Northern Fereldan the next day, taking Hawke with her, as well as Blackwall, Solas and, for some reason, Sera, who complains loudly until they’re out of earshot. Varric is not invited.

Surplus to requirements, he spends a couple of days sorting through his affairs. The destruction of Haven had been devastating to his paperwork, but he’s got copies elsewhere of everything important, and the Merchant’s Guild and his various other contacts have already begun sending replacements. At most, he’s lost a few weeks of work on his latest novel, some ciphers already out-of-date, and a few personal letters, which he is sorry to lose - Merril’s correspondence is always a hoot, when she remembers to write, and Aveline has been blessedly diligent in keeping him apprised of affairs in Kirkwall.

He claims himself a small room in the Keep’s extensive Undercroft. The door is thick and bolts from the inside, and there is a small window which lets in some wavering, uncertain light through a thick pane of glass and a curtain of falling water. The muffled quiet is conducive to sleeping but not much else, so he spends most of his time at a rickety table he’s corralled in the corner of the still rubble-strewn main hall, gossiping.

He’s known as a companion of the Inquisitor, which ought to make people wary around him, but his personal charm - and possibly the very public arguments he frequently picks with Her Inquisitiveness - seem to ease the way, and soon he’s got ears in every corner of Skyhold, and people come to him with the best gossip, and Leliana makes him memorize a new cipher for his notes just in case. Varric rarely takes notes, but he’s got a good memory for detail. He tells the Nightingale less than what he learns, enough to keep her from pursing her lips in irritation at him, and drops fake-or-exaggerated stories in enough ears to muddy the waters a little in the name of espionage.

Evie settles into Skyhold well. She doesn’t like being in the main hall where anyone can find her; folks are still too inclined to stare and whisper and sometimes try to talk to her, but the dwarves they’ve hired pronounce the tower structurally stable and Josephine declare it off-limits to the general population and posts guards at the only entrance. Most days Evie can be found curled up in the dusty rafters, reading the novels that Dorian slips her.

A redheaded dwarf woman arrives, and Varric does a double-take. She’s too young and bright, voice too sweet, and her gaze passes over Varric without a hitch of recognition, but for a minute - it’s been too long, that’s all, a fistful of years since he’s had more than a letter. The new dwarf is named Dagna, and she’s so sweetly loopy he’s reminded strongly of Merril. She sticks a rune onto Bianca that makes anything he shoots at catch fire. Varric loves her immediately.

A raven comes. Cullen, Leliana and Josephine barricade themselves in the big room at the base of the tower and presumably argue themselves to a conclusion, and the Leliana marches up to Varric and tosses a tightly-rolled missive on the table in front of him and says “Pack,” in a clipped voice.

The letter - or rather, the report - is two pages in Cassandra’s dreadful handwriting and stilted language. He skims it, then goes back and rereads more carefully when he catches _undead_ , and _Blight-drowned_.

Near to the bottom of the missive:

_I realise we have not yet finalised a procedure for the closing of rifts while protecting the child, but this too urgent to wait. The rift itself seems no worse than any other in size or strength; it is the location that is problematic. The dead rising from the lake seem endless and the village cannot hold out long. Fortunately there do not seem to be any more mundane sort of enemies nearby. I believe that Evie will be safe enough with a complement of Inquisition troops, and of course, her mercenary bodyguards. Send her as quickly as you are able. Please ensure she packs an oilskin. It has been raining for days._

It doesn’t mention Varric at all, but he packs his things and saddles up his fat mountain pony and heads out the next morning, riding alongside Bull’s enormous black beast of a steed, with Krem grumbling behind them and a small squad of Inquisition soldiers in front. Evie is perched in front of Bull, and when he gets tired of her elbowing him, he picks her up by the waist and tosses her, squealing, to Krem, who catches her slight weight one-handed and cuddles her close, bitching at Bull all the while.

The trip to Crestwood is achieved with military efficiency and rapidity; Harding meets them in the foothills and takes them by the fastest route, and the dull mechanics of setting and breaking camp each day are briskly handled by Cullen’s freshed-faced and eager troops. In the evenings, Krem continues to teach Evie the various and sundry ways a little girl can savagely disable a grown man, frequently using Iron Bull as a dummy. Piqued, Varric teaches her to pick pockets, using Krem as a dummy, and they are both annoyed to discover that Rocky has been slyly showing her how to make explosives.

“You’re not allowed to make explosives, Nugget,” says Varric sternly.

“Am I allowed to put my thumb in a person’s eye and dig around?”

“Sure,” says Varric. “You know, if you need to. Not my eye.”

“Obviously not your eye,” says Evie, impatient. “Bad people’s eyes.”

“Yes, that is allowed,” says Varric magnanimously. Evie carries a set of small daggers on her now, one on her right shoulder, the other at her waist, safely strapped into their sheaths. When she practices with Krem, her stance is low and steady, her little feet quick to dodge and her movements confident. But the tent walls are thin, and Varric wakes to her whimpers some nights, and knows she’s still affected by Haven, by Corypheus. She’s allowed to do things that make her feel strong and in control, even if teaching a ten-year-old how to kill a guy with her pinky and then giving her daggers was likely to end in disaster.

As Cassandra had warned, Crestwood is very soggy. And it smells like Darktown in the summer. They are attacked by corpses three times before they reach the walled town, which is exactly like Darktown in the summer, except fewer blood mages and the Qunari is making terrible jokes about bodies instead of shouting incomprehensible Qunlat and hitting Varric with a sword taller than he is. Small mercies.

“Short stack!” cries Hawke when she sees him, because leaving her alone with Sera was clearly a mistake. The interior of the Crestwood inn is hardly less damp than the exterior, but there is a fire, and the smell of food not hastily cooked over a campfire, and Hawke doesn’t get up to greet him because she’s got a lapful of drooly Mabari head. Honey rolls his eyes at Varric and whuffs in greeting, but doesn’t move from where he’s getting ear scratches.

“Hey Chuckles,” says Varric, and is rudely elbowed aside by Evie, who is squealing “Dog!”

“Are we sure she isn’t Fereldan?” asks Hawke. “Hey, hey, _no_. You do not grab at a dog you don’t know, missy. You ask first.”

“Can I pet your dog,” says Evie breathlessly.

“You may,” says Hawke, dislodging Honey and brushing futilely at the drool patches on her breeches. Honey immediately transfers his significant affections to a fascinated Evie, and Hawke ambles over to Varric, trading a nod with Bull as the Chargers storm the bar and set up camp.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” she says. “Stroud’s here too, somewhere. Saw a dragon.”

“No,” says Varric reflexively.

Hawke’s nose scrunches up, and she is visibly crafting another dad joke when someone behind him says, “What is he doing here?” and Varric sighs and turns around.

“Nice to see you too, Seeker. I came with Evie, your letter made it sound urgent.”

Cassandra, damp hair sticking to her forehead, scowls at him. “My report was for Leliana and Cullen.”

“Nightingale sent me,” says Varric. “Ten days on horseback. In the rain. You’re sodding _welcome_.” He bumps his shoulder against Hawke and walks - not storms or stomps or anything that looks angry, just walks -  over to the bar, orders a drink, and plants himself between Iron Bull and the blessedly silent Grim, who taps their tankards together commiseratively.

The next day the whole ridiculous party - the Chargers and Cullen’s troops and Cassandra’s original group and Hawke and Honey and Stroud with his still-beautiful moustache - slog through the steady rain, through the boggy remains of the now-drained lake picking off stray demons as they go, through the Blighted, drowned old town, and into a cave. On foot, because demons and undead spook the horses and they can’t come in the cave anyhow, so Varric is hip-deep in corpsey mud and pretending for Evie’s sake that he’s not mad at Cassandra and not not talking to her and wet and crabby - and then it turns out to be not just a cave but a dwarven ruin, which is Varric’s least favourite thing ever, he might actually cry from sheer aggravation.

The waves of demons from the rift are much easier to handle with a group of two dozen than of four, and when a brief lull descends while the rift pulses sullenly, Bull brings Evie in from her spot by the door and she squints at it, grits her teeth, and snaps it shut. The pressure in the room drops so fast Varric’s ears pop.

“Huh,” she says into the ensuing silence. “That time was easier, I think.” She shakes her little hand out like it stung.

“Good job, Nugget,” says Varric.

“Yeah!” she says, and gives a little hop. “Showed you, demon-stuff. Ha.”

When they emerge from the caves, it’s almost right on top of another rift, and there’s a quick scramble to contain it. By now Varric’s seeing the rhythm of the rifts, the pulsing bursts where they spit out demons when anyone approaches, the periods of churning dormancy before the next wave is upon them. And then Evie, with her feet braced and centre of gravity low like Krem has been teaching her, reaching her tiny hand up to fold it away, neat as a pin.

“Oh, the rain’s finally pissing stopped,” says Sera, and sure enough with the green of the rift wiped from the sky, the rain has indeed stopped, and there is a glimpse of blue on the horizon like a flash of treasure in a midden-heap.

By the time they make the muddy hike back to Crestwood, the sun is out, and the collected rain of weeks and weeks is rising steamily into an unbearable humid haze, and then they discover that the Mayor has done a runner, and they have to deal with that whole… thing.

Why in the Maker’s name it should be the Inquisition’s problem is beyond Varric: Haven was Ferelden only by a technicality, and Skyhold is in the liminal area of the Frostbacks that was not even contested territory it was so unfriendly, but Crestwood is solidly Ferelden. They pay taxes to the King and maintain the King’s Road and sit on one the major land routes into Ferelden. Corruption in an elected official is _Ferelden’s sodding problem_.

Not that he can say that to Cassandra.

“So you’re the one who pissed in Cassandra’s drawers before we left,” says Sera, as they all troop into the castle and shake the mud off their boots.

“How the hell did you guys get a keep?” says Varric, ignoring her conversational sally. “We have a keep already, and I think the King will be pissed if we steal another one.”

“We were bored waiting,” says Sera, “and we didn’t steal it, we liberated it from bandits. Did you have a fight?”

“You’re worse than Evie,” says Varric. “And she’s an infant.”


	12. Chapter 12

“I wanted to apologise, Varric,” says Cassandra. The skies over Caer Bronach are clear and starry, and lake smells of rotten fish and lakeweed, but at least it’s stopped raining.

“I beg your pardon?” says Varric, defaulting to sarcasm out of sheer habit, and immediately feeling kind of bad about it for the spasm of uncertainty which crosses Cassandra’s face.

“I should not have snapped at you yesterday when you arrived,” she says determinedly. “I was not expecting to see you. I had been expecting more time to think over our argument, and you caught me off guard.”

“I caught you off guard,” Varric parrots blankly. 

“You know by now that I do not take well to being surprised,” says Cassandra. “I should not have taken it out on you, however. Especially as I was planning to apologise for our earlier quarrel when I saw you next. I have rather spoiled that.” Cassandra is, as ever, solemnly earnest.

“Thanks?” says Varric. “What brought this on? Last we talked you were fit to kick me out of the whole party.”

Cassandra ducks her head. If it weren’t so dark, Varric’s pretty sure he’d be able to see her turning red. “I have been speaking often with Hawke on this trip,” she says slowly. “She is extremely fond of you. And she would have made a poor Inquisitor.”

Varric barks out a hoarse laugh. “She would have made a disastrous Inquisitor, can you imagine?”

“I think Commander Cullen would have quit on the spot,” says Cassandra. “I had gotten caught up, I think, in my plans. I was angry about being thwarted in my goal. But Hawke is your friend, not merely a political piece to be played on a board, and you were quite right to protect her.”

“Well,” says Varric, rubbing his palms on his thighs, “if we’re sharing our feelings and all, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you she was coming. I wrote to her ages ago, but it took a while to get to her, and with everything going on, I just plain forgot.”

“Yes, she explained your system. Quite convoluted.”

“Well, as far as we knew she was wanted by the Chantry.”

“It was not a criticism,” says Cassandra, raising her hands. 

“No, I know,” says Varric, and they look cautiously at one another for a moment. “So, we good?”

“We are good,” Cassandra confirms, and they shake on it.

“My fuckin’ heart,” says Hawke, who has apparently been lurking in the shadow of a doorway the whole damn time. Varric chucks a mug at her. “That was beautiful, I’m so proud of you both.” She clutches her hands to her chest.

“I vote we toss her in the lake,” says Varric.

“Nobody will ever suspect us,” agrees Cassandra.

~

They leave one of Leliana’s agents in Crestwood to keep an eye on the town in the absence of a mayor. Despite Varric’s reservations, the Inquisition has decided to hang on to Caer Bronach, nominally in trust until Fereldan allocates more forces to the region. That it’s a politically and strategically valuable position now overseen by a trained spy is pointedly _not_ discussed in the missives between Josephine and the Fereldan monarchs, apparently.

“It is only because of the good relationship we have with the Crown that I allowed this,” says Cassandra, when Varric asks if she's really, really sure about this. “And even then I have instructed the remaining Inquisition members to keep lines of communication with Denerim open and defer to the King’s judgement in all matters pertaining to the management of the area. We have vexed him and his Queen enough for one year.”

“And I guess we couldn’t leave them completely undefended,” says Varric, “with the dragon and all.” Cassandra had agreed with Varric and refused to allow any Inquisition members to go hunting for the dragon, to Bull’s vocal displeasure.

“Indeed,” says Cassandra. “And while Leliana would have strangled me for giving up such an excellent tactical position, I am afraid Josephine would have been equally displeased had I done anything to risk our good relationship with the Fereldans. A temporary caretaking agreement seemed an equitable solution.”

“That’s pretty smart,” says Varric. “Likely to piss off the Orlesians, but smart.”

“What can I do that isn’t going to annoy the Orlesians?” said Cassandra. “No, that was rhetorical, don’t be an ass.”

~

They make it back to Skyhold in good time, and Josephine proudly shows off the improvements she’s overseen in their absence: the cleaned and repaired windows in the main hall now shine in the sunlight, the stables smell of new wood and clean hay instead of mildew and rot, and the massive gate - well, there is a gate there, now, just in case anybody manages to get an army this far up into the mountains.

The best improvement, however, is the one which makes Cassandra literally shriek with rage: a ten-foot-tall, gold-framed oil painting of the Hero of Orlais and her storied victory over the quartet of dragons.

“We cannot send it back, Inquisitor,” says Josephine, reasonably. She has chosen to unveil the painting in the hall, perhaps in the hope of modulating Cassandra’s reaction. “It was a gift from the King of Nevarra. He would take it as an insult.”

“He means it as an insult!” says Cassandra. She is very red in the face.

“Not everyone shares your aversion for praise, Cassandra,” says Leliana mildly. “I think it’s rather magnificent.”

“Tell me you didn’t wear that armor, boss,” says Bull. “I never saw you as the type for armor with the tits hammered out.”

“Certainly not,” said Cassandra. “The artist has taken far too much creative license.”

“The face is rather good, though,” says Vivienne. “An excellent likeness.”

Evie, drawn by the commotion, gasps in delight when she sees the painting. “You look like one of the stained-glass of Andraste!” she says to Cassandra. “Did you really kill a dragon?”

“I did,” Cassandra allows, putting an arm around Evie’s shoulders, “Though I didn’t look so ridiculous when I did it.”

“Hot,” says Bull, low.

The painting is less ridiculous than Cassandra insists: a nineteen-year-old Seeker apprentice with one booted foot on the head of a dead dragon, bloodied sword in one hand and shining shield in the other, that Grand Cathedral in the background. True, the armour is absurd, and Varric is certain the even if Cassandra had ever had waist-length black hair she wouldn’t have let it flutter in the breeze like a pennant. But Vivienne is correct that the artist has managed to capture Cassandra’s sharp-hewn features and vivid, stern expression with wonderful life. She looks as if she is about to step down from the canvas and start swinging.

“Is that how you got that scar?” asks Evie. The painting shows a fine scratch down Cassandra’s face, a single drop of blood on her jaw.

“Yes,” says Cassandra, “but this artist is a hack. Ask anybody who was there.” She draws her thumb down the length of the scar on her jaw. “It was split down to the bone. You could see my  _ teeth _ . The healer said I was lucky my whole jaw was not shattered.”

“Not posing for paintings, then,” says Varric

She snorts. “Hardly. My uncle had it commissioned some years back and sent the fellow to follow me around until I let him sketch at least my face. Then he left me alone and I forgot all about it.”

“I like it,” says Evie. “Can we hang it in the hall?”

“Yeah!” says Bull. “Right over the throne. For impact.” He makes a crude gesture.

Cassandra groans. “Can we not just put it in a storeroom somewhere?”

“It was a gift,” Josephine repeats. “From a King. We must display it.”

“Display it, hell,” says Varric “That’s the cover of the next Swords and Shields. If I was going to write anymore of those. Which I’m not.”

For some reason, this statement makes Cassandra blush profoundly red and stumble over her words so badly that Leliana manages to convince her to have the painting hung in the lower hall - technically a formal dining hall, but in reality too musty and dim to be utilised much. This satisfies Josephine as to propriety and Cassandra doesn’t have to look at it. Varric, meanwhile, is left wondering what he said the could possibly have garnered such a reaction in the Seeker.

“It’s her favourite book,” says Cole, later that day, out in the bright afternoon sunlit courtyard. Varric stares at him. “She’s embarrassed to tell you. She loves your writing.”

“You nugfucker,” says Varric, appalled. “Did you make me forget that you existed?”

Cole’s head comes up in surprise, and he blinks at Varric with those curious pale eyes. “Oh. Yes. That happens sometimes.”

“Why.”

“You had a lot to worry about. If you’d remembered me, that would have been one more thing.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I didn’t take anything away from you. It was all still there. It was just covered up, like furniture you weren’t using.”

“Are you,” Varric begins, then trails off, uncertain how to fashion the question. 

“Not like the mage, who meant well. His passenger consumed him.”

“What, then?”

“Something else. I want to help.”

Varric looks at the strange soft boy with his mild voice and large hidey hat, and thinks, fair enough. “Wait, did you say Cassandra read Swords and Shields? That book was terrible.”

“She knows,” says Cole. “She’s read all of your books. It isn’t the best, but it’s her favorite. It makes her feel all tangled up and hot inside. She reaches for it when she’s feeling lonely and her skin is hungry.”

There is a long pause while Varric digests that. “She wouldn’t like you to tell me that,” he says eventually.

“You should write another one, about what happens to the Knight-Captain. You should write about the Knight-Captain being happy and loved and succeeding at things and being touched by a handsome man.”

“Do you just blurt out the thoughts of all of the people around you?” asks Varric. “Kid, that’s rude.”

“Sorry,” says Cole. “I forget sometimes. It’s hard to tell what’s inside and what’s out loud when the inside is so loud.”

“You’ll have to work on that, if you’re going to being sticking around,” says Varric, and takes the kid to see Cassandra.

~

There is an argument about allowing Cole to stay which Varric keeps himself scrupulously out of. Cassandra eventually decides to keep him, because Nightingale damn near cracks a smile at the thought of an agent who can read minds, and also, she confided to Varric, because Evie likes him.

“She finds him soothing,” Cassandra tells him.

“I take it you don’t agree?” says Varric.

She shifts uncomfortably. “I am… unsure,” she says. “By rights, I should consider him a demon, but there seems no malice in him.”

“Blondie… Anders. Anders always used to say that not all spirits were demons, that there were spirits of noble shit like courage and love.”

“And that ended well for him, as I recall.”

“Yeah,” says Varric, “‘Justice’ turned out to be less of a fun party guy than you might think.”

“Amazing,” says Cassandra drily. “Are you trying to talk me out of allowing the boy to stay?”

“No, no,” says Varric. “I think that ‘Helpfulness’ is far less likely to commit acts of mass murder. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”


	13. Chapter 13

Some weeks later, Cassandra leaves for Ferelden again, quite abruptly, only announcing it the evening before and taking only Dorian, Vivienne, and Blackwall.

“It is not a secret,” she tells him when he asks, “Leliana has received word about the remains of the Seekers in a keep in the Bannorn. After Lord Seeker Lucius’ behaviour in Val Royeaux, I must investigate.” She’s bent over a map in the war room, measuring days of travel with her fingers.

“Sure, sure,” says Varric. “I’ll just stay home with the baby while you go live your life, it’s fine.”

Cassandra laughs, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “I cannot justify bringing Evie,” she says.

“And she does better when one of us is with her, I know,” agrees Varric. “Believe me, I’m not complaining about _not_ being dragged on a forced ride through sodding Ferelden again, Seeker.”

“I have never dragged you on a forced ride,” says Cassandra, sounding slightly offended. “A forced ride is sixteen hours a day in the saddle, hardtack for every meal, sleeping on the hard ground with a single blanket and no fire or tent.”

“Sparkler’s not going to like that,” Varric muses.

“Oh, it will not be that bad,” says Cassandra. “Those measures are reserved for times of great urgency. We will ride ten, perhaps twelve hours a day, and bring extra blankets.”

The corner of her mouth is twitching as she rolls up the map; Varric nudges her. “You’ve got a tell. You’ll never win Wicked Grace with a smirk like that.”

“I’ll never win Wicked Grace as long as I cannot remember how to play it,” she says absently, ignoring Varric’s theatrical gasp of horror. “And anyway, Dorian asked to come along, he has some personal business to see to in Redcliffe.” She nudges him back and turns towards the door.

“That sounds juicy, but go back to the part about how you can’t play Wicked Grace,” says Varric. “Seeker? Seeker! What do you mean you don’t know how to play? This is embarrassing! For the Inquisition!”

He chases her laughter down the hallway.

 ~

Cassandra and her party leave in the chilly dawn, and scowling Evie sticks close to Varric all day, moody and cross.

“Did you have another fight with Cassandra?” she asks accusingly, about midday.

Varric looks up from the fiddly little bolts and springs and sockets he’s got spread across his table: Bianca’s been making an odd rattling noise he’s trying to hunt down. “No?”

She sighs dramatically and slouches over her folded arms. “Oh.”

Varric wipes oil off his hands. “I know you don’t like it when she has to go away.”

“It’s fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

She shrugs. “People go away sometimes.”

“And it’s sad when they do, and we miss them.” He tweaks one of her braids. “Right?”

She grumbles something, and says, “No, it’s silly. I’m a big girl.”

“Yep,” says Varric. “Big girls miss their friends too, you know. Hawke cries up a storm everytime we say goodbye.”

“She does not,” says Evie. “When we left her in Crestwood she whacked you with her staff and told you not to fall in the lake on the way back.”

“It’s her way of showing she cares,” says Varric. “I guess Hawke feels a bit silly about it too, huh? So she pretends really hard that she doesn’t care, and then she writes me reams of letters and mopes instead.”

“I bet she doesn’t.”

“I bet she does! I bet she swoons around and gazes dramatically over the moors and says things like ‘I wish Varric was here, he’s so handsome and clever, and life is so hard without him. Curse his sense of responsibility!’”

“No, she says ‘Varric owes me a drink, and I wish he was here because I’m thirsty’,” says Evie petulantly, and Varric laughs so hard he has to sit down and hold his ribs.

“You’re incredible, Nugget, you know that?” She shrugs, and Varric catches her and pulls her into his lap so he can hug her properly. “I’m sorry that things are hard right now, but you know you aren’t going to be left behind, right?”

She nods, and puts her cheek against his. “They need me,” she says. “Blessed child. For the rifts.”

“Sure, some,” says Varric. “But me, I need my Evie-girl. For writing letters and making me laugh and snowball fights. Yeah?”

Her arms go around his neck. “Yeah. Okay.” She sighs, and Varric rocks her a little, scratches her back, not caring that they’re in the middle of the hall. “I miss Cassandra. I don’t like it when she goes away.”

“I know, Nugget. She’ll be back as soon as she can. She misses you too.”

~

A shipment arrives from Kirkwall, and Varric falls upon the crates Aveline has sent him like a starving dwarf. His books! His papers! His _wardrobe_ , praise the Maker, he’s been cycling through the same five shirts for months! A jar of soft candies from Merrill, as well as the socks he’d requested, a polite letter from the proprietor of the Hanged Man confirming his suite is still paid up to the end of the year, a painting he’d lifted from Bartrand’s estate before selling it on, his backup harness for Bianca, and dozens more little bits and bobs of the life he’d left behind.

“What is all this junk, anyway?” says Sera, who has turned up to snoop, with her sharp nose for goings-on.

“Roots,” says Cole, perched at the end of Varric’s bed like an enormous blond crow. “Anchors. Also the little elf with all the scars put a pastry in there for you, but i think it’s gone stale.”

“That’s Daisy alright,” says Varric, pulling out a bundle of crumbs wrapped in wax paper. “Full of thoughtful gestures. It looks like she just dumped the whole contents of my desk and filing cabinet in here.”

“How am I supposed to know what’s important, Creators, how can anybody have this much paper?” says Cole, in a breathy imitation of Merrill’s accent.

“Don’t do that,” says Sera. “Varric, make it stop!”

“I don’t actually recall inviting either of you into my room,” Varric points out. “Play nice or entertain yourself elsewhere.”

“I’m not poking anything,” says Cole, sounding offended. “You’re the one being loud.”

“I’m not!” Sera howls, and Varric is forced to evict both of them soon after.

Merrill really has sent every piece of paper she could find: crumpled letters, receipts, shopping lists, fan mail, hate mail, and stacks upon stacks of unfinished, half-finished, abandoned stories. Drafts of novels she must have excavated from under his bed, the very dregs of his bookshelves, or possibly from the Fade itself. He finds his first rejection letter from a publisher squashed into a book of traditional dwarven miners’ guild verses, and then Josephine calls for him to come and help her with a diplomatic situation with some of the more traditional surface dwarves, the ones who still keep caste and everything, and with one thing and another it’s days before he gets back to clearing out the rest of the crate.

The last thing he pulls out, from the very bottom where several pages are stuck to the wood with some unidentified substance, is an unfinished outline and a few half-hearted scenes and scraps of dialogue for Swords and Shields, abandoned when the sales for the first had tanked. For some reason, he doesn’t toss it on the burn pile with the rest of the dross he can’t believe Merrill had shipped across the Waking Sea to him. He flips through a couple of pages, scratches his chin, and tucks it into one of his desk drawers.

Look, the book might be shit, but the characters are pretty good, if he does say so himself.

~

Cassandra returns under a cloud some days later. A raven had arrived ahead with the news about the last of the Seekers, so nobody is surprised when she speaks to nobody but Evie, briefly, before retiring to her room.

“How bad was it?” Varric asks the others, cornering them in the stables as they unload their horses.

“Fucking wonderful,” snaps Dorian. “We all had a marvellous little party, didn’t we?”

Vivienne says, “My _dear_ ,” in her most pointedly patient tone, and Dorian rolls his eyes and leaves, his shoulders rather hunched.

“Well, all the Seekers were dead,” says Blackwall, rather uncomfortably. “Bad death, the red lyrium. Painful.”

“I am afraid that the Seekers of Truth are no more,” says Vivienne. “And the Inquisitor, of course, is taking it all rather personally.”

“I have met Cassandra, yes,” says Varric. “Dorian?”

Vivienne hums as she plucks a burr from her horse’s white mane. “A personal matter. Unrelated to our mission to Caer Oswin, I believe.”

“How do you know that,” says Blackwall, sounding exasperated. “Neither of ‘em have said a word to me in days!”

Vivienne’s brow wrinkles slightly. “I pay attention, my dear,” she says. “You can learn all sorts of things about a person by listening to what they don’t say.”

Varric finds Cassandra that night, near midnight, drinking in the back of the little chapel off the garden. She sits against the back wall, with her long legs kicked out in front of her and her fingers drumming on the neck of the bottle of Antivan brandy.

“I do not want to talk about it,” she says, when Varric slides down the wall beside her.

Varric produces a flask of Rivaini mead from his coat pocket. “Fine by me.”

They drink in silence for a while.

Eventually, Cassandra says, “Do you think it is right that we involve Evie in this struggle? We have no choice, I know. But she is only a child. Children should not be at war.”

Varric squints at the statue of Andraste in the dim, and doesn’t answer right away. “Evie was part of a war for years before we found her. She’s been at war since she was sent to the circle.”

Cassandra sighs. “Does that make it better, what we do?”

“We protect her,” says Varric. “She’s safe and warm and loved here. And sometimes she uses her twinkly hand to make the world better and safer and we all tell her how great she is.”

“And sometimes she is kidnapped or attacked,” says Cassandra. “And even if she is not, is it fair for us to decide that she will spend the rest of her life as the Blessed Child, closing rifts and bringing hope to the people of Thedas?”

“Have we decided that?” says Varric. Cassandra folds forward over her legs like sitting up is too much effort. “I mean, if she hits sixteen or so and decides she wants to - I don’t know, open a potion shop, or join a mercenary band, or marry somebody wildly unsuitable - you wouldn’t tell her no, would you?”

“No,” says Cassandra, muffled. She sits up, and turns rather green. “The Chantry might, though.”

Varric pats her on the shoulder, casting about for a bucket or something, in case Cassandra loses her composure. “Is this about Evie, really? Or something else.”

“I do not want to talk about it,” says Cassandra. She tilts her head back against the wall and closes her eyes. “Did you know that I had an apprentice? He was only twelve when he came into my care. I did not know how to care for a child. I taught him to speak Old Nevarran. I taught him the Seeker techniques for holding under torture. Control of the body. Pain is only an illusion.” Her voice does something peculiar. In the dim light, her face is wet.

Varric’s arm is around her shoulders, he realises. He squeezes her gently. “Sorry, Seeker.”

“Not anymore,” says Cassandra. “All the Seekers are gone. Daniel was the last. I taught him to endure. He was weeping, but it was red lyrium. It looked like he was weeping blood. ” The bottle hits the floor and rolls, empty. “I am very tired.”

“Let’s get you to bed, then.”

“I meant to pray,” she objects.

“The Maker will still be there tomorrow.”

He hauls her upright, and she leans on his shoulder as they stumble through the garden and into the hall, where Leliana takes one look at them and immediately takes over.

“You should have said,” Varric hears her gentle scolding as she guides Cassandra towards the tower.

“I only meant to pray,” says Cassandra sadly. She turns to look back at Varric. “I am sorry to burden you with it, Varric.”

He sketches a wave. “Sleep well, Seeker. Cassandra.”


	14. Chapter 14

Some days after their return from Fereldan, Varric is summoned to Cassandra’s chambers in the evening by a little waif of an elven servant who is so nervous she can barely squeak out the message. He wanders past the guards at the tower door and up the long, long stairs, through the dusty rafters, past the door to the little room Evie claimed as her own, until he reaches the Inquisitor’s quarters.

He hasn’t been up here since before the tower was cleared for use: Cassandra values her privacy fiercely, and she has little enough of it these days, and also there are a lot of stairs and Varric has short legs. When he crests the top of the final staircase, he takes a moment to pause and let his poor calves cool down, and to look around.

A far cry from the dilapidated, birds-nest-infested garret it had been only months before, Cassandra’s tower-top room is a large, clean, space, strewn with rugs and furs, and wrapped up in the fading hazy-purple dim of the setting sun refracted through cut-crystal windows. Cassandra sits behind an enormous desk in the corner, a single candle stub casting little puddle of light around her as she scowls down at the papers in front of her.

“That’s a taxes face if I ever saw one,” he says. “Bills of lading getting you down? Requisition requests?”

“Worse,” says Cassandra sourly. “Diplomacy. Give me a moment, please.”

There is a couch by a low bookshelf: Varric makes himself comfortable and considers the room. It’s chilly up here, but in the strange, magical way that all of Skyhold is chilly: brisk and refreshing, never quite tipping over into unpleasant iciness despite the altitude and enormous windows. Aside from the couch and desk, there is a curtained alcove, a heavy clothes press, far too many half-dressed armour stands, and a large, plain bed tucked away in the corner. Cassandra has no idea how to decorate or arrange such a room: such comforts and luxuries as exist have obviously been provided by Josephine, or perhap Vivienne, to reinforce Cassandra’s unique status. Varric suspects the Seeker would have been happier in a barracks, rather than this echoing, temple-like space. In Kirkwall, this room would have housed a family of twenty in comfort.

“Do we even need the Anderfels,” says Cassandra, once the light is almost all gone from the windows. “I think not.” She rises and stretches her back until it pops.

“That’s the spirit,” says Varric. “But you should light another candle, humans aren’t meant to work in the dark.”

“It was full bright when I sat down,” complains Cassandra, but she takes a candlabrum from a sideboard and brings it over to sit beside Varric, dripping wax on her fingers as she goes. “There,” she says, when the lighting is settled. “I am sorry for the wait, I had meant to be done with this half an hour ago. Josephine insists I answer all correspondence of a certain level myself, so I am writing mostly to kings these days. Some dukes.”

“Yours is a hard life,” says Varric, though he is genuinely sympathetic. Cassandra is truly discomfited by luxury, and honestly bad at diplomacy. She would be a terrible Inquisitor, except for her fierce unwavering faith and honest love for the cause. “You should get a secretary to take dictation and do all the curly bits.”

“That would be ideal,” says Cassandra, “only any such person would have to be approved by all three of my advisors. Cullen prefers forthright Fereldans, Josephine silver-tongued Orlesians, and anybody Leliana nominates is vetoed on the grounds of being too slippery to trust.”

Varric snorts. “It’s a miracle we ever get anything done around here,” he says.

“That is exactly what I wish to discuss,” says Cassandra. “Please let me explain without interrupting, will you?”

“Sure,” says Varric slowly.

“And this is - this is a request, Varric, not an order, for it is no small thing.”

And she explains the intel from Stroud, the threat to the Wardens, the rumours of some sort of ritual, in the furthest western reaches of Orlais.

“Establishing a significant military presence at such a distance would take every resource the Inquisition has at this time,” says Cassandra. “I have discussed with my advisors and we plan to send a small investigatory force. No more than ten people, as discreetly as possible.”

“And you want me to go,” says Varric. There is a map on the low table, he stares at it and tries to calculate travel time.

“I want you to lead it,” says Cassandra, which is extremely unexpected. “The distance and isolation will make communication somewhat sporadic. I need somebody I can trust to represent the Inquisition, and give me good advice on the situation.” 

Varric squints at her. “But you don’t trust me. I distinctly remember you almost pitching me off the side of Skyhold because you don’t trust me.”

In the candlelight, Cassandra goes very red, and looks shamefaced. “I have apologised for that,” she says.

“Yes,” says Varric. “But there’s a difference between ‘sorry about almost murdering you’ and - this kind of trust.” He rubs his nose, swallows. “Why me?”

“Because I do trust you,” says Cassandra earnestly. “You have served the Inquisition since the beginning, even though I dragged you to Haven as a prisoner. We may disagree on some things, but I know you will act in accordance with your conscience and your best judgement.” 

“Oh,” says Varric dumbly.

Cassandra clears her throat and looks away. “There are few people I can trust,” she says, and it has the ring of something she has rehearsed. “And fewer still I would call friend. I assure you, Varric, you are both.”

“Stop,” says Varric. “You’re making me blush. I mean you really are, this is the nicest you’ve ever been to me and I’m not sure how to deal with it.” Cassandra’s brows draw together, an expression of hurt or annoyance, but Varric seizes both her hands before she can withdraw. “Seeker, of course I’ll do whatever you need. I’ll lead the stupid expedition. I’m honoured. I just wasn’t ready for that speech.”

“It wasn’t a speech,” says Cassandra, rather sulkily.

“You didn’t rehearse it in the mirror?” He squeezes her hands gently.

“I did not. I may have made some notes ahead of time.”

“It’s terrific. I loved it. You should show me your notes so I can put this in the book I’m writing about the Inquisition.”

“I have changed my mind about being your friend.”

“Nope,” says Varric, grinning. “It’s too late for that. We’re friends now. I’m gonna get you a birthday present and everything.”

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise and reclaims her hands, and Varric politely pretends he doesn’t see the moisture she swipes from the corner of her eye as she turns back to the maps.

“Hawke and Stroud both mean to make the journey with you,” she says, “and I will send Blackwall as well, and perhaps Solas. Cullen will select two of his soldiers, and Leliana one of her agents.”

“Going overland?”

“At this time of year, a ship would be fastest. From Jader along the coast to the heartlands, and perhaps even all the way up river to Lake Celestine, if it can be managed. It will cut some time off the journey.”

“We’re still talking months, though,” says Varric. “Like, three, four months, there and back?”

“This is why I hesitated to ask you,” said Cassandra. “You like your comforts, and you will find few of them in the desert. If all goes well, you might be back within four months, but it will be a hard time.”

“You let me worry about my comforts, Seeker,” says Varric sternly. “I’m more worried about how Evie-girl is going to take it. You know she’s skittish about either of us leaving for any amount of time.”

Cassandra sighs. “I admit, that gave me pause. She is doing better, lately, but -”

“Given her history,” says Varric. “I don’t blame her for being a bit clingy.”

“I will give her the news, if you like,” says Cassandra, and Varric groans.

“No, no. That wouldn’t go down well. I’ll talk to her.” He rubs his face. “Four sodding months.”

“I’m sorry.”

“If it turns out the Wardens are just starting a knitting circle or something out there, I’m going to be extraordinarily pissed.”

“If that is the case, I give you Inquisitorial permission to shoot them all.”

 

Evie takes it badly. She bursts into tears and begs Varric not to go, and then she has what can only be described as a tantrum and kicks him a whole bunch of times, and Varric is forced to restrain her a rougher-than-he’d-like embrace, and then she makes herself sick on purpose and locks herself in the privy. Varric tries talking to her through the door for a while, but gives up at the sound of something smashing against it, and goes to drink instead.

She doesn’t talk to him for three days, and it’s so extremely terrible he almost takes up writing awful sad poetry before he manages to corner her in the library the day before he is due to leave.

“I know you’re mad at me,” he says. “You don’t have to talk to me, that’s fine, I understand. I just have to tell you something before I go, okay?” Evie glares out the window. “Please look at me, Evie. Just for a second.”

Sulkily, she turns to look at him, meeting his eyes briefly before directing her gaze to somewhere about his chin.

“I’m sorry I have to go away. I wouldn’t if it wasn’t important. But I’m coming back, I promise.”

“Okay,” she says quietly. She’s very obviously unconvinced, or at least uncomforted by his assurance.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll write to you, as often as I can. Will you write to me?”

“I guess,” she says, and looks out the window.

He takes her hand. “I’m really sorry, Nugget. I know it doesn’t help to say that, but I am.”

Her mouth twists, but she lets him hold her hand for a while. “You could stay,” she says at length.

“I could. Cassandra even said she wouldn’t make it an order. But there’s something really bad happening out there, and the Inquisition needs to help.”

“How come it has to be you, though.”

“It just does,” says Varric helplessly. “You know Cassandra has to stay here and protect you, and there’s hardly anyone else who’s been with the Inquisition since the start, who can be trusted with this.”

“Stupid Inquisition,” mutters Evie.

“Yeah,” says Varric. “Stupid being responsible and protecting the world.”

Evie rolls her eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, and she squeezes his hand.

 

When Varric and his small party ride out in the following frozen pre-dawn, he sees Evie watching their departure from the gatehouse, her blonde head barely visible over the stone crenellations. Behind her, Cassandra is a carved pillar, all stern dignity. Evie waves when she sees Varric spot them.

Varric blows a kiss, and leads the way out into the world.


	15. Chapter 15

Cassandra,

You sly thing! I can’t believe you arranged all this and I never heard a word of it. Getting to Jader and finding Isabela’s ship at anchor was a pleasant surprise, but finding out you had chartered her to take us up the coast - well, Hawke pretty much tackled the Admiral clear off the gangplank, she was so thrilled.

It turns out Rivaini and Fenris are still sailing together. Sea life seems to suit him: drinking and killing slavers, a world without masters. He even said he was glad to see Hawke, though they were back to bitching at each other within the hour and Fenris climbed the rigging to sit up in the crows nest and avoid her.

I don’t think Hawke’s ever forgiven him for the argument they had right after the meltdown in Kirkwall. He said he was glad to see she’d finally admitted that he was right, and that mages were evil and had to be controlled and whole load of other bitter nonsense. Hell of a thing to say to a woman who just damn near died defending a city from mages and templars both - but it turns out that he wasn’t talking about the blood mages or abominations in the circle, he was talking about Anders. He was glad that Hawke had finally put the mad dog down. Fenris is lucky she was drained nearly dry after the Gallows battle, because if she’d come at him with magic instead of a knife he’d have walked away with worse than a scar.

The thing is, Hawke really loved Blondie - or maybe the person he once was, or could be? She believed in the cause of mage freedom. She supported him. But what Anders did to her wasn’t because he was a mage, or possessed, or an abomination - it was because he was a lying shit. I don’t know about the Grand Cathedral. I don’t know how much was him and how much was his passenger, but he lied to Hawke and manipulated her and used her love and trust to force her to be complicit in something she never, ever would have been part of willingly.

That isn’t why she killed him, the lying. She killed him for the lives lost, and because he was hardly human anymore. ~~Justice~~ Vengeance had the reigns. It shattered her to do it.

Ah, I’m rambling. Can you tell we’ve busted out Rivaini’s good rum? I probably won’t send this in the morning.

Give Evie a kiss for me.

Varric

 

Dearest Evie,

We have all made it to Jader in one piece, and found a lovely surprise that Cassandra arranged - we are to be chartered off to western Orlais in a boat captained by my favorite Rivaini pirate, Isabela! She has a small fleet now - she says three ships counts as a fleet - and mostly does legitimate work these days. She has writ from a number of coastal cities to hunt slavers, so Fenris is having the time of his angry, angry life.

Hawke and Stroud met us in Jader, and it’s almost just like old times again. The old times were mostly terrible, which I never remember until I try to play Wicked Grace with Isabela or prevent Hawke from trying to climb the mast with one hand while holding a cup of rum, her staff, and several maps all in the other. I’m not saying nobody in the Inquisition ever does idiotic things, but at least in Skyhold I don’t feel like the only sane man in the world. Josephine can usually be relied on to look disapproving, and sometimes Cullen can manage ‘stern’. Blackwall and Solas are both extremely alarmed by all the nonsense and are sitting together watching this all unfold like a play. I don’t think they’ve yet realised that these are the people in charge of driving the boat.

Oh, somebody wants to say hello -

[A large smudgy, mark, as if some creature has gone nose-first into a puddle of ink and then very carefully sniffed the letter]

Ugh, dogs. Honey sends his greetings, and some drool.

I also send my greetings, and I miss you.

Love Varric.

 

Varric,

Thank you for your letter. I am pleased that I was able to surprise you, although I must admit Leliana was the one who made all the arrangements and kept the news from reaching you. I only made the suggestion. Captain Isabela was quite amenable to the trick, and her prices were not too outrageous, presumably out of friendship for you and Hawke.

I am sorry that this is dredging up bad memories for you, and probably for Hawke. For all my bluster, I am well aware the Kirkwall was a… complicated place to call home, especially in those years preceding the destruction of the Grand Cathedral. Anders’ death seemed very neat to me when I heard of it, but with clearer eyes I can see it was nothing of the sort: an impossible choice between the one you love and the greater good. I can only pray I am never placed in a situation where my principles are at war with my emotions in that manner, but the Inquisitor’s role is unlikely to remain uncomplicated forever. Will I have the strength of character to do what must be done?

Please pass on my best to Hawke.

Things have been proceeding as usual here at Skyhold. We are making plans to begin bringing Evie to some of the nearer areas of Orlais, around Halamshiral and the Dales, to begin closing the rifts. Bull and his Chargers have been training hard at coming up with ways to best protect her while rifts are active. Sera, standing on a tall chair and throwing mud at them, has been playing the part of the rifts. It is keeping morale up, I suppose. (Honestly, it is extremely funny - do not say so to Evie, as she takes it all quite seriously as training.)

There was also an amusing incident with some Avvar we had angered by sending troops into their swamp. Their chieftain took umbrage and mounted a truly laughable attack on Skyhold, but Josephine had quite a clever idea for how to resolve their insult, and all parties are satisfied, so I will say no more. Travel safe.

Your friend,

Cassandra

  


Dear Varric,

I saw some bits of Cassandra’s letter and she already told you about this bit but she didn’t tell it RIGHT. The Avvar that came THREW A GOAT AT SKYHOLD.

A whole entire goat, at the wall of Skyhold! The goat was fine I think, just stunned. It made this funny bleating noise when it hit the wall and then got up and ran in circles after, it was so funny.

It wasn’t an attack, not really. The Avvar and his people had big spears and swords and things, they could easily have done a real attack, but when Cullen’s men came to arrest them they just laughed and came along. Cassandra had to decide what to do with the, and I could see her trying not to laugh all the time, and then she banished them as punishment. But she banished them to the Tevinter border! And gave them all the weapons they could carry, and supplies and things! So it isn’t really a punishment, I think it’s like a game. I asked Leliana, and she said that since the Inquisition killed the Avvar’s son, he had to get revenge for honor. But he didn’t really want to. And since they attacked the Inquisition, the Inq. has to respond or we look weak, but he didn’t really do anything so bad, so they get banished but in a way where everyone’s happy. So the Avvar gets his honor-revenge, and the Inquisition looks strong, and the Avaar get to make lots of trouble for the Tevinters with the Inquisition’s secret help that looks like a punishment.

Politics is complicated.

I have been training hard with the Chargers for when we next go out, and Sera has been helping. I am getting really good at dodging and rolling and hiding, which is my only job until it’s time to close the rift. Bull says when I’m bigger I can have a turn killing demons.

I’m glad you got to see all your friends again, even if they are a bit strange! I only know about them from the bits of your book I got to read. Should I see if I can find a copy? Or is it one of the books that M Giselle says are too unseemly for children? I’m not children, I’m eleven. Soon I’m going to be travelling around closing rifts!

Miss you too, come back soon!

Love Evie.

 

Dear Evie,

You letter contained approximately ninety-five excellent things and I was thrilled to read it! I read the bit about the goat to the others at dinnertime, and everyone thought it was hilarious. Did you get to keep the goat, or did the Avar take it with them?

Thank you for telling me about your training. Speaking as a professional sneaky person, dodging and rolling and hiding are the best skills to have in every situation, aside from a charming smile. (Don’t worry about the smile, you’re naturally gifted in charm.) Don’t be too eager to get out and get demon-killing though. It’s profoundly unpleasant work - muddy, bloody, and a high chance of nonsense like possession, abominations, and fade rifts. Maybe stick to straw dummies for now.

My friends are a bit odd, but as soon as we set sail, Isabela was as serious and competent as you could like. She takes nothing seriously, except for the sea, and all the other things she pretends not to take seriously, like freeing slaves. So we are in no danger of wrecking, not to worry, and Hawke claims she has never fallen from a height before so there is nothing to worry about.

You should definitely read my book, Nugget! You haven’t already? I am shocked. Cassandra has a copy she might lend you, or there is one in the library, I think. Dorian will know. It is definitely not a seemly book at all - there is a lot of swearing and violence, and it was banned in some places for being seditious - but nothing that’s beyond you. You’re smart, and if there’s things in there you don’t understand or upset you, you’ve got plenty of people around to ask for help.

Here is an important question: when did you turn eleven? I think I missed your birthday, which is very terrible of me. Mind you, it’s been almost a year since we first met, so logically I’ve probably missed at least one. Sorry, Evie. Tell the date and I will write it in my appointment book and never forget again, and probably bring you an overly elaborate present out of guilt.

Love Varric.

 

Dear Cassandra,

I feel like I should apologise for my last, which was pointlessly maudlin, as if you don’t have enough on your plate. Seeing Rivaini and Hawke and Fenris all together again made me miss Kirkwall all of a sudden, cesspit that it is. It will always be home.

Isabela tells me it’s riddled with rifts - not surprising, considering how threadbare the veil has always been there. But because it’s Kirkwall, Aveline has just blocked off the areas where the rifts are so they don’t accidentally get triggered, and people are going about their lives. I’d give good odds the gangs are using them to dispose of inconvenient people, and better odds that Aveline is smart enough to catch them at it. I wish I was back there. I’m doing more to protect the city with the Inquisition, but the heart wants what it wants, and it always wants that filthy, teeming, corruption-ridden excuse for a city for some reason. Maybe on my way back from the Western Approach I’ll go for a visit.

Hawke and Fenris have come to some kind of truce, surprisingly. I found them passed out drunk in a heap in the cargo hold. Neither of them will tell me what transpired, so I’ll have to make something up. What do you think, ardent declarations of hidden love, or drunken cat-fight to mutual unconsciousness? We are ~~deboating~~ disembarking tomorrow anyway, so they’ll have plenty of time to cool off apart.

By the way, did I miss Evie’s birthday? She wrote me that she was eleven, and therefore definitely big enough to read wicked and sinful books about violent revolution against oppressive authority (Tales of the Champion, V Tethras, 9:38 Dragon). Did I miss it? Surely somebody would have told me. Please lend her a copy if you have one, it’s important for her to have access to quality literature at this impressionable age.

[several lines crossed out; the following words are thickly scrawled: hurried, but plainly certain]

Nobody who has ever met you could doubt your strength of character, or your commitment to doing what must be done. Have faith in yourself. I do.

Varric.

 

Dear Varric,

I got a copy of Tales of the Champion and so far I love it. I am only up to the bit with the dragon because I don’t have much time to read at the moment. Tomorrow we are leaving to the Dales so everyone has been very busy with packing and arranging and training. Cassandra says we will be gone at least a month. She has to meet someone in a forest called Emerald Graves, which is a good name. It’s creepy, I like it. And I will be closing rifts along the way. Everyone keeps telling me over and over that I will be safe, except that is making me more nervous! Iron Bull has been practicing tossing sacks full of grain far across the courtyard and trying to get Krem and Rocky to catch them. Does he think I will let him toss me like that? No way! None of the Chargers try to catch the sacks except for Grim and he got knocked right over. I’m pretty sure I’d get squashed flat.

You didn’t miss my birthday before you left, but you’ve missed it by now. 14 Justinian. I’m eleven now! You better bring me a really good present.

Mother Giselle has been teaching me medicine, which is really interesting, all about how to do things if you don’t have any elfroot potion. I guess she is worried about me getting lost in the snow again, or another avalanche, or maybe burned. It’s interesting how bodies do things like make scars. Maybe after I can learn how to make potions and heal with magic.

Master Dennet says on this trip I am big enough to ride my own horse! I still have to have a leading string to Cassandra or someone, especially in the mountains where it’s dangerous, but I have my own horse! Her name is Princess Adelaide - I didn’t name her that, she was a gift from some Orlesian and I had to write him a letter to say thanks. She is a brown horse and very calm, she mostly just follows the other horses so we won’t get lost.

My next letter will be from the Dales!

Love Evie

 

Dear Varric,

I have only time for a short note before the raven leaves - I can already hear Leliana sighing at the delay, as I write so slowly. But I must take the time to thank you for your words in your last letter. Your faith in me means a great deal, and I am grateful to have you for a friend. Such kindness deserves a weightier answer than I have the space or skill to craft, but I know you will take my meaning even from this little note, as you always seem to.

Be safe and well.

Your friend,

Cassandra


	16. Chapter 16

They arrive at the edge of the wastes at around dusk. The world divides almost neatly here: on one side, the verdant fields and lush pastures of the Orlesian heartlands. On the other, the badlands, a cracked and empty maze of ravines and gullys, arid and forbidding.

“The farmland used to extend all the way to the mountains in the west,” says Stroud. Varric squints. “You can’t see them from here. It’s hundreds of miles. The Blight swallowed this land whole. The ground around the Abyssal Rift was corrupted beyond cleansing, and now it is only fit for monsters.”

“What a cheerful thought,” says Hawke. “I do love a blasted wasteland.”

They spend the night in the tiny town of Lille, perched there on the edge of the world, and in the morning they enter the wastes.

It takes less than a day for Varric to decide that desert canyons are the second-worst thing in existence, next to caves. He is coated in a fine layer of sand within minutes: he can feel it in the roots of his hair, the creases of his clothes, the soles of his boots. He’s sweating, and the sweat only worsens the dust situation, and then the sun dips behind the canyon edge and he’s abruptly freezing.

There are, at least for the moment, no darkspawn or giant spiders, which is the only advantage the wasteland has over the Deep Roads. He says as much to Hawke one evening, as they’re setting up camp in a blind-end ravine.

“My least favourite was the place in the Vimmark Mountains, remember?” says Hawke, after contemplating it. “A desert, and then Deep Roads, and also shitty family history.”

“I mean, the ancient thaig, if we’re going for shitty family history,” says Varric. “But nothing beats the smell of the Darktown warrens for sheer, you know. Ambience.”

“The Warden keep in the mountains above Weisshaupt,” says Stroud thoughtfully. “It is so cold there that a mere five minutes outside unprotected can blacken fingers, all year round. I knew a fellow who lost both ears and the tip of his nose when he got drunk and sat down for a rest on the way back to his room.”

Hawke squawks an objection at the thought, and kindles their campfire with a startled burst of flame. Blackwall wonders aloud if locales must be ranked on their merits alone, or if he can vote for an otherwise-unobjectionable region of Ferelden which he encountered during a plague-ridden summer after the Blight.

Solas lifts his head from directing an icy stream of magic into their cooking pot to melt down for soup, and says very seriously, “There was a swamp, once. Leeches. That was when I still wore shoes.”

“Wet socks,” says Hawke, horrified. “ _ Squishing _ .”

“Indeed,” says Solas. “I had no opportunity to get dry for some weeks, and the results were… unappealing.”

“Remind me again why we’re saving the world?” says Varric dolefully.

To his surprise, it’s Lace Harding who volunteers the answer. “For all the bits that aren’t terrible, I guess,” she says. “You, know, there’s bits that are awful, but if the gross swamps get destroyed, then so does the stream by my parents’ farm where I used to go fishing under the willows.” She nods firmly, portioning out the waybread. “It’s always cool there even in summer. If you lie really still on the bank with your arms in the water the fish will swim up and tickle your hands. That’s my favourite place.”

Lace Harding is probably the nicest person in the world, and Varric will horribly murder anybody who hurts her.

It’s days before they emerge from the canyons into the salt wastes by the abyss. From here they can see the Warden watchtowers and fortresses dotting the edges of the massive gulf, ever watchful. Leaving Harding and Cullen’s men to establish a base camp, Varric, Hawke, Stroud, Solas and Blackwall pick their way across the shifting sands to the edge of the world. 

The abyss is… something. Varric’s read about it, seen paintings, thought he understood the scale, but there’s really nothing that can prepare a body for the world so suddenly vanishing into haze below. The loose sand beneath his boots robs him of even his blunted surfacer stone-sense of how deep it might be.

“What kind of motherfuckers would build a keep here,” he mutters, and Stroud shoots him a quelling look.

“Motherfuckers trying to stop what’s in there,” he points to the abyss “from getting out.”

Varric must concede the point.

 

They find the Wardens.

It goes poorly.

 

That evening, as Varric is scratching out all the curse words from his official report for the Inquisition and adding a bunch of extra curse words into his letter to Cassandra, Hawke wanders past the fire and flops down next to Solas.

“Hey,” she says. “You know about all that - Fade, Veil nonsense, don’t you?”

Solas cocks his head. “The Fade has been my deepest study all my life,” he says, instead of ‘yes’ or ‘why’.

“Great,” says Hawke. “How come it’s different here?”

Solos actually turns to look at her, very intently. “Curious,” he says. “You mean to say you can sense the subtle fluctuations in energy?”

Hawke squints. “It’s cracklier here,” she says. “Is that what you mean? Some places, it’s -” she scowls, and makes a baffled gesture with her hands, sort of pinching and spreading. “You know. More like that.”

“Yes,” says Solas, a corner of his mouth curling up; “precisely like that. There are places where the Veil between this world and the Fade is… weaker, for whatever reason. Threadbare, if you insist on using a curtain-ish metaphor. Places where great magics have been done to cross the barrier, over and over, thinning the boundary. That is not the case here, I believe.”

“Then what is it?”

Solas looks across the darkened desert, in the direction of the abyss. “The Fade and this world are reflections of one another. The Blight poisoned this place in both worlds: here, it befouled the land and poisoned the water. There…”

“Demons,” Hawke guesses glumly.

Solas gives a calm tilt of his head like a shrug. “Nothing ever ends in the Fade. This place is rich in nightmares and death, meat food for creatures which feed of the worst and darkest of things. They press against the Veil. They are hungry.” He pauses, folds his hands carefully. “I believe I shall avoid walking in my dreams tonight.”

Hawke is silent for a while, picking at her nails. She darts a speaking glance over at Varric, and then squares her shoulders and says “Have you ever been to Kirkwall?”

“I cannot say I have,” says Solas. “I dislike cities, generally. You have concerns about the Veil in Kirkwall?”

“I might,” says Hawke.

“Watch out,” says Varric. “She’ll show you her research.”

“Shut up, Varric,” says Hawke, “Even you can’t argue one-third of mages in a single city becoming abominations is normal. There was something about Kirkwall itself.”

“There are other factors that could contribute,” says Varric, scrawling his signature with a flourish. It’s an old discussion between them, one Hawke had become slightly obsessed with after her mother’s death. “Abuses in the Circle, for starters. Or a singled determined enchanter with slightly more control than usual could corrupt dozens of apprentices before succumbing.”

“If that were the case, we’d see similar outbreaks in other Circles, with those conditions” says Hawke.

“Kinloch,” says Varric. “Famously. Just ask Curly.”

“Kinloch was a single incident,” says Hawke, exasperated. “Yes, it nearly wiped out the Circle, but it was one man in the wrong position. Kirkwall was a decades-long escalating clusterfuck.”

“I assume the city has some bloody history?” asks Solas.

“It was the hub of the Tevinter slave trade for centuries,” Varric admits. “The mage Circle was imprisoned in the same fortress as the slave Gallows.”

“But even then, historically, it’s out of the ordinary” says Hawke, and Varric groans: she usually doesn’t get into her wilder speculations until she’s good and drunk. “There are records of mass blood sacrifices and demon incursions dating back to the earliest days of the city.”

“They were magisters,” says Varric. “Blood sacrifice is what they do!”

“Kirkwall was an industrial city!” says Hawke, jabbing a finger at him. “It made its money from slaves and quarries, and it was leagues away from the centre of the empire! Why travel all the way from Tevinter to slaughter hundreds of slaves on site instead of doing it in the comfort of your own home?”

“Why indeed?” says Solas, leaning forward. “I assume you have a theory.”

“Oh boy does she,” Varric mutters.

“I do,” says Hawke. “I think that the city was purpose-built to channel the spilled blood of every slave who passed through it to a single purpose.” She gives a dramatic flourish with her staff. “To punch a hole in the Veil and let the magisters walk in. And I think it worked.”

There is a stunned silence.

Solas believes her, Varric realises, or at least doesn’t think she’s crazy. The look on the elf’s face suggests he is rapidly rearranging something inside that big eggy head of his. “An interesting thought,” says Solas faintly.

Blackwall, on the other hand, looks dubious but fascinated, like a man who has just heard a ghost story. “Surely the histories would mention that,” he says. “Surely somebody -”

“But that’s the interesting part!” says Hawke gleefully. “That there aren’t any histories about it. There’s so much evidence, but nothing written down?”

“We are not drunk enough for this,” says Varric, and since there’s no booze, he goes to take a raven from the cage and send off his report.

In the dull days while they await a reply from Skyhold and watch the Wardens trickling into Adamant Fortress, Hawke and Harding somehow club together and form A Plan to take one of the keeps that dot the edge of the Abyss: Griffon Wing, lightly guarded currently but defensible, with its own water supply and defensive runes worked into the stones that the Tevinters have apparently not noticed.

“It’ll be a good staging point to send some guys out to look at that, you know, the poison gully,” says Harding enthusiastically. “And have a proper foothold in the area.”

“I just want to kick somebody into the Abyssal Rift,” says Hawke. “Is that so much to ask?”

It’s not a democracy, but Blackwall and Stroud are both grimly in favour of the idea of ousting the Tevinters from a Warden keep, any Warden keep, and it is, as far as Varric can tell, a tactically sound position for the Inquisition to occupy, so he throws up his hands and they go and do that.

Hawke does get to kick somebody into the Rift, and afterwards she and Harding heave all the Tevene banners and brass and bodies down after the first unfortunate victim, and Varric has a keep. It’s in the centre of a blasted wasteland on the edge of civilisation, but he plants the Inquisition flag on the parapet and decides to call it a victory, and they spend the next week or so fending off the half-hearted attacks from the Venatori until a party of Orlesians arrives from the Heartlands to repair the gate.

“This would be an ideal opportunity to renounce the Inquisition and set yourself up as a warlord,” says Hawke, up on the wall one evening.

Varric folds up Cassandra’s latest letter. “Sounds like a lot of work,” he says. “Also I would have to stay here, which I would prefer not to do.”

“Nonsense,” says Hawke bracingly. “You’ve got the coloring for desert life, you know. Very tan.”

“That is a sunburn,” Varric says. “My skin is too delicate for this shit. And we’re not staying here; once the backup troops Cullen is sending arrive overland, we’ll be heading back to Skyhold for a spell.”

“Awfully long way to come just to turn around and go back,” says Hawke. She’s twiddling a very small dagger between her fingers like a card trick. “I might stay for a while. Keep an eye on things.”

Varric nudges her. “Carver’s not coming, you know. Aveline’s got him safe.”

“I know. Shifty bugger legged it when he got Stroud’s letter; Aveline says he’s taken over your room at the Hanged Man.”

“Cheek.”

She scuffs her boot against the stonework and leans a little more into his shoulder. “Stroud thinks he can save some of them,” she says. “He wants to waylay parties as they come through the canyons, try to convince them to desert.”

“Sound like a good way to get murdered,” says Varric. “Does that sound callous?”

“You’ve got larger concerns now,” says Hawke, her mouth twisting. “Fate of the world and all that. Also,”

“Don’t say it,” groans Varric.

“You’re a Dad now. You have to be responsible.”

“Fuck it, I’m taking you up on the warlord thing, and my first act is going to be tossing you into the Abyss.”

“Language!” says Hawke, grinning. “What kind of example -” He shoves her, not too hard since they’re on the edge of the parapet, and it wouldn’t actually do to lose her.


	17. Chapter 17

Dear Cassandra and Evie,

Writing to you both together because we have only one raven left until we return to civ., and Solas’s report on this temple is heavy enough to nearly ground the poor thing. The desert continues to be a trial upon my poor innocent soul, but the temple is located at an oasis, which is better. I saw a picture of an oasis once - a pond with a single palm tree next to it. This is quite different. It is hardly visible at all until you’re very close, and then you descend into these winding canyons - so much cooler and shadier than the surface - and come out into this magical space which is all thundering waterfall and drifting mists and towering walls of vine-covered rock, with just a bit of blue sky right overhead. I cannot describe what a relief it was, after the desert. Blackwall walked into a pool and flung himself face-down for so long I was worried he’d drowned; apparently the beard is a bit much re: desert. I do not blame him.

We plan to turn around and come right back now that we have investigated the temple here. There’s nothing to be done until we have more of those shiny things, anyway. We found enough lying around to get the first door open, and Solas is pretty sure that there’s some kind of magical treasure inside, but the real treasure is the swim I plan to go for after I send this raven off, my last chance for a bath until we get back to the Heartlands…

If you do not hear from me within three weeks, I have either become lost in the desert or decided to live at the oasis forever to avoid being lost in the desert. Send paper and ink and ale and more ravens and some clean shirts.

Love Varric

 

Dear Varric,

Before I begin, let me say that Evie is fine. We had an alarming incident earlier today, but she is unharmed, and sleeping in the bed across the room from me, since I am unwilling to let her far from me right now.

The group known as the Freemen of the Dales made an attempt to abduct her this morning. We believe that they were merely opportunists - they saw our party approaching a rift, and Evie, as she has been trained to do, kept back from the fray and prepared to run and hide. While her guard were distracted by the demons, they took her.

She was out of our sight for perhaps five minutes, but I must confess it felt like a lifetime. I am afraid it was not much of a rescue, either. When we found her she was quite alone and quite hysterical. In her desperation she had used her mark to open a rift on top of her abductors. It was exceedingly effective, but she seems to have found it very upsetting, as she apologised to me repeatedly as we retreated to our camp. She has not, I believe, killed anybody before. She is only a child.

I blame myself. The Iron Bull blames himself, and has been drilling the Chargers all afternoon. I have nobody to drill, only letters to write. I found myself unequal to comforting her, and she spent the day sitting with Cole, and I am blaming myself. I have failed to protect her, again and again, I have allowed her to be abducted and attacked and taken her into battles with wicked men and demons, and now I have brought her to this forest where she has had to kill men to defend herself because I could not. It is no wonder she does not wish to speak with me.

Perhaps you could write to her? Your letters always cheer her. You always seem to know what to say.

If only we could go back to Skyhold at once, but there are things afoot in Halamshiral. The Empress has declared peace talks, and Leliana believes that this will be the site of the assassination which took place in that dark future, so we must attend. I would send Evie back in any case, and not take her to that den of snakes, except I promised her when I sent you to the Western Approach that both you and I would not be away from her at the same time.

If you make good time, you may meet us in Halamshiral for the talks. It will certainly be appalling: I am told there will be a grand ball. Evie would like to see you very much, I think.

This letter is a mess. I am sorry.

C

 

Dear Varric,

Cole says I should write to you so you don’t get scared of Cassandra’s letter. I am okay! When the free men grabbed me I was pretty scared, I couldn’t see Cassandra or Bull or Sera or anybody, they were all fighting demons at the rift. I didn’t really mean to open a new rift, but I was thinking so hard about closing one, and I put out my hand, the marked one, and it just went woooosh. It was so strange, it wasn’t noisy at all, it was like I was in one of those magic shield bubbles. Everything was blowing around me, but all I could hear was the wind, and when it stopped all the free men were dead.

I thought Cassandra might be mad at me for using magic to kill those free men, even by accident. Some of the templars at the circles used to say there was no excuse, not even self-defence, to use magic in violence. Niko used to ask a lot of questions like what about to protect other people? What if you’re protecting babies? What if the other person is a really bad person like a magister and you use magic to kill him so he doesn’t hurt a whole cart full of orphans and puppies? How come it’s different to use magic to hurt someone instead of stabbing them like templars do?  Niko got in trouble for asking questions a lot. 

I know Cassandra isn’t a templar, and Madame Vivienne and Fiona and Dorian and Solas all use magic in battle all the time and don’t get into trouble. But sometimes I don’t know the rules. When Vivienne invited us to her party there was a man there who was rude to me, and Vivienne wrapped him up in ice in front of everybody at the party and threatened to kill him. Nobody did anything! She lived in a big fancy house and attacked people with magic for no reason and there weren’t even any templars anywhere, but Niko got tranquilled for trying to stop one of the templars from taking Kacy into the templar barracks, even though Kacy was only twelve, and Niko didn’t even hurt him, just pushed him down so she could run away. But I killed six people with one hand and I am a good strong girl who did the right thing. Nothing makes sense.

Anyway. Cassandra wasn’t mad, and she said I can do whatever I must to protect myself, and that the templars don’t make the rules anymore, and that she’s sorry she failed to protect me. Madame Fiona is going to teach me some battle magic because after I did the rift thing I was really tired and had to sit down for a while, which was okay this time but might not work another time. Cole is whispering in my ear all the plans Bull and Sera are making to stop anyone from grabbing me again, and he’s leaving in all the swears that they use, even the really bad ones. Cole’s so funny. I hope Cassandra isn’t sad for too long, it really wasn’t her fault.

I miss you!

Love Evie.

 

Dearest Evie,

I have to admit, your letter was relief, because Cassandra’s did frighten me a little - she was very afraid for your safety, and also pretty worried you might have been badly scared by the experience. You know we all feel responsible for keeping you safe, not just from physical harm but from other kinds of hurt too, and Cassandra feels it more than most. Even though it all turned out fine, she still felt like she’d let you down. It isn’t your fault or her fault, but she still feels badly about it.

You’ve obviously been thinking a lot about these inequalities in the world, and the different kinds of rules people are held to. It’s a complicated subject to think about, and a hard one, and you’re right that the outcome is so often unfair. What was done to your friend Niko was completely unjust. What happened to so many mages in Kirkwall was monstrous. I don’t blame the Circles for rising up against their treatment. Some of the things that the mages have done in rebellion have been awful as well, though - do you think it cancels out? Do you think Vivienne should be given horrible punishments, in order to be fair, or should all mages have sprawling estates where they can threaten rude chevaliers whenever they like? How do you punish a kid who accidentally burns down their family home when they have a tantrum?

This isn’t a test, Nugget. I don’t know what the right answers are to questions like these. But you, my clever little love, are thinking very hard about the big questions that are consuming half the world right now. And even though it’s hard and scary and frustrating, please keep on thinking about it, and asking questions, and getting angry when things are unfair. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that your anger, or your questions, aren’t allowed.

The good news is, I will certainly see you soon - we expect to be in Halamshiral by the end of the month, to take tea with the empress or some nonsense. I hear the Winter Palace has baths you can get lost in, and I intend to try - it may be the only thing that gets all this sand off me. We’ve been back in the heartlands a full week now and I’m still tipping sand out of my boots every night. Deserts are terrible.

So I will see you very soon, and I can’t wait. I even have a special birthday present I picked up out here in the back of beyond. You’ll never guess.

Love Varric.

 

Dear Cassandra,

That was a very alarming letter to get after weeks in the desert, but I am grateful to hear that all is well. I wrote to Evie, but I don’t know how comforting I was - mostly she wrote to me about comparative morality and the ethics of punishment, the little revolutionary darling, so I encouraged that line of thinking. Frankly I think you need comfort more than she does, so although it may be coming weeks after the fact, below is my best attempt.

You are not the reason Evie is involved in this war. She was dumped into it by her parents, beaten into by the templars, and dragged into it by the breathtaking irresponsibility of the mage rebellion: she has spent years in this war. 

Do remember that first day, taking her up the mountain? How afraid she was? Fainting, shrinking little Evie? I felt awful. I felt like a war criminal, like one of the really scummy Lowtown flesh traders even the Carta won’t deal with, dragging this little girl into a nightmare when she was too scared to say no.

But it has been a year since then, and Evie isn’t scared anymore. The mages and the templars may have dragged her into this war, but they left her terrified of the world, terrified of her own powers, screaming at the sight of a man in armour. The Inquisition - you, Cassandra, your guardianship, your example - you have made her strong. She knows that we’ll come for her whenever she’s in danger, but she also knows that if we aren’t there, she has the right to fight for herself - and the skills to back it up, the mark, her little knives, the way she goes for the groin.

Obviously it’s appalling that we live in a world where protecting her from all harm and evil isn’t possible. I wish it was. But in this unkind world, you’ve done the best thing possible for Evie: you’ve made her tough enough to weather it, and she knows that you’ll be there to back her up when she needs it. You have allowed no injustice; you have failed nobody. Please be kinder to yourself.

Varric

P.S. I haven’t a thing to wear to a grand ball, but I will see you in Halamshiral regardless.


	18. Chapter 18

Passing through the Exalted Plains, they are told they’ve missed the Inquisitor and Blessed Child by less than a week. The warring Orlesians have mostly laid down their weapons now, and are holding their positions, burning their dead, trading stories of demons, and uneasily awaiting the outcome of the peace talks. When they realise that Varric’s little rag-tag band are Inquisition representatives, they are welcomed immediately, resupplied, and helped along the way - evidently there was a problem with the dead rising with which the Inquisition gave them aid, and Celene’s loyalists and Gaspard’s rebels are each equally grateful. A muddy battlefield, Varric supposes, is unsurpassed in the list of “really awful places to deal with necromancy”, and the experience appears to have rather soured the chevaliers’ appetite for war.

The roads get better as they near Halamshiral: better maintained, more frequently patrolled, overall more civilised, and the last few days of their journey are almost annoyingly smooth, apart from the too-crowded inns and glut of nobles. They hear more and more tales of the Inquisition as they go: the closing of rifts, the settling of fights, the one time the Inquisitor snubbed the Duke of somewhere-or-other and almost caused a duel in the inn’s courtyard.

And then they arrive at the Winter Palace, and something unclenches in Varric’s chest at the sight of the gaudy gates, the showy marble, the expensive gilding and blue paints; but most particularly at the sight of the sword-and-eye flag among the fluttering banners showing the factions in residence. The Inquisition is here.

“No offence to any of you,” says Harding, as they wait for a servant to show them to the guesthouses, “but I am going to find a room with no other people in it and just, not be around any of you for a while. With the door locked.”

“I can appreciate that,” says Solas smoothly. “I imagine Varric’s company must get tiresome after a time.”

“You’re extremely funny,” says Varric. “Obviously she means Blackwall. Guy never shuts up. Just talk, talk talk all day.”

Blackwall startles, as if he hadn’t expected to be addressed. “At least I’ve never told her she’s an unusually sensitive soul - for a dwarf,” he says, looking meaningfully at Solas.

“The good news is, none of you are wrong,” says Harding brightly. It’s been a long, long couple of months.

The Inquisition has been quartered in one of the better guesthouses which dot the palace grounds. The Palace proper is reserved for the imperial family, but the Inquisition has been put in a place which Varric is told is a mark of honour: near enough to stroll across the lawn to the grand entrance, and just as blue and gaudy as everything else in this forsaken place. Varric is gazing up at the gilded doors and thinking hot-water-and-soap thoughts when he is hit by a flying missile in the shape of a girl, squealing his name at a nearly painful register.

“My Evie!” he says, getting his arms around her and squeezing hard.

“Varric!” she says. “You’re here!”

“I told you he’d be here,” says Krem’s voice. “Varric wouldn’t miss a party.”

“I thought you might not make it in time,” says Evie into his ear, low, and he kisses the side of her head. 

“Disappoint my girl? Never. We’ve been going like mad the last week or so to make it in time.”

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” He wrestles free of her embrace so he can get a proper look at her, and is startled and pleased to see that she’s grown. Not so much in height, but she’s thicker and less frail now, a full year of good meals rounding her little face and putting some flesh on her. Varric has left many elements of his dwarven upbringing behind, but he is of the firm and unshakeable opinion that children should not be  _ skinny _ . Evie had been the next thing to gaunt when he’d first met her, but the Inquisition has filled her in some, and several months apart allows him to see the changes in her with a new eye.

“You’re just in time for the duel,” says Krem, from behind them. He’s wearing slightly better armour than he has been, with the Inquisition symbol on the breastplate, and picking at his nails with a dagger.

“What duel,” says Varric faintly, and Evie looks thrilled.

“Cassandra’s fighting a chevalier!”

“Oh, Maker.”

On the way to the duelling grounds, Krem explains. “You know how her worship is, right? No patience for all this Orlesian nonsense. She’s been challenged to half a dozen duels in the last couple of days.”

“Most of ‘em are stupid,” Evie interjects, swinging on Varric’s hand.

“Yeah, the one who challenged her because she didn’t bow low enough was pretty funny. Anyway, Lady Montilyet said she had to either start doing courtly manners or start taking them up on the challenges.”

“Cassandra said she’d rather fight half the court than learn when to call someone “your lordship” instead of “my lord”. She and Josie got in a fight about it.”

“So Lady Montilyet and the Nightingale somehow managed to convince all these offended lords and ladies to pick one champion between them,” Krem says, “and her worship will fight him, then they’ll have done with it. They picked the winner of some fancy tournament.”

“Cassandra’s going to beat him into  _ paste _ ,” says Evie, with absolute conviction. “I gave her my ribbon to wear for a favour.”

“This,” says Varric, “is the best welcome-back present ever.”

The duelling grounds as are bedecked and ostentatious as everywhere else, but not even Orlesian nonsense can make the ring anything other than a muddy fenced-in pit. Some squires are pouring out sand to dry it up a little as Varric, Evie and Krem make their way to the Inquisition’s private box.

“Varric, you have returned,” says Josephine distractedly. “Good, perhaps you can convince the Inquisitor that some problems are best solved by diplomacy.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” says Varric. Leliana is there, and Vivienne and Dorian, and a half-dozen other familiar faces: he nods in greeting. There are cushioned chairs, rather than narrow benches, and  quiet-footed elven girl in palace livery brings him a cup of wine and leaves a plate of fruit nearby.

“Anybody running a book?” says Varric making himself comfortable in the chair next to Evie. “Or have we all become terribly boring in my absence?”

There is no answer, because a blast of trumpets cuts the air and the combatants enter the ring. The champion is a great hulking fellow: his list of tourneys won is almost as long as his fluttering banner, and his armour is almost as shiny as his hair. The helm tucked under his arm is styled to look like a lion, but his sword has a motif of swans worked into the hilt, which is the kind of thematical inconsistency that Varric pettily wants to put into a book. He smiles, and waves and bows for the cheering crowd.

Enter Cassandra: she appears not to even notice the crowd, too busy arguing with Cullen, who seems to be trying to convince her to wear a helmet.  A murmur of confusion spreads over the crowd - does the Inquisitor know that she’s here to fight a duel? She’s come in nothing more than her workaday boiled-leather breastplate and gauntlets, lugging heavy shield and plain sharp longsword, vehemently refusing a helmet; she looks around at the thronging crowd with a faint frown and impatiently waves Cullen away. Her only ornamentation is the bright blue ribbon wrapped around the wrist of her sword hand.

“Come on, Josie,” says Leliana, laughing. “You must have expected she would be difficult about this.”

“She is not taking this seriously,” says Josephine. “She is fighting for the honour of the Inquisition.”

“She is fighting to keep the peace with you and ease our way in the court,” says Leliana. “She does not think a duel can have anything to do with honour, any more than the depth of a bow can have anything to do with respect.”

“You could use that man as a mirror,” says Evie to Varric. “He’s going to get  _ so  _ muddy.”

“You’re so right,” says Varric. The crier is listing off Cassandra’s titles, but he was distracted during the recitation of her unexpectedly long list of middle names. He’s going to have to look them up so he can make fun of her properly.

Just before the bout begins, Cassandra turns to the box where the Inquisition are watching, and bows, deeply enough she’s definitely doing it to annoy somebody. Probably Josephine. Evie bounces on her heels and waves excitedly, and even from this distance, Varric can see Cassandra’s mouth quirk.

The match begins.

Right away, it is evident that the opponents are poorly matched. Cassandra has no interest in putting on a show for an audience: she dodges blows instead of meeting them, prefers the dull thuds and grunts of a swing avoided than the dramatic steely chime of clashing blades. She’s accustomed to fighting for her life, not for audience. Nevertheless, the chevalier is no slouch: he lands a couple on her before she shoves him back with a brute-force slam of her shield, and she looks irritated to have to do it, as if she hadn’t expected the shiny fellow to put up much challenge. But he’s quite good. Good enough that they go back and forth for a bout, trading off hits and circling one another with wary respect.

“Flatten him,” Evie whispers, clutching at Varric’s arm. “Cassandra, get him! Oh!”

Cassandra goes crashing to the ground, and from the wave of murmurs from the crowd, it seems like she might be done for, but she rolls clear of the chevalier’s next swipe and comes to her feet in a single smooth motion to deliver a swing of her sword that has him stumbling backwards. She looks - it’s distant, but she looks exasperated, and fed up, like she’s doing something moderately annoying under protest. The next time he comes at her she moves fast - his shield goes flying, his sword is knocked aside, and he’s down in the mud with her blade at his throat, and when he goes to grab for his fallen blade she stamps on his gauntlet.

It’s a brisk, unexceptionable end to the match: the armoured man in the mud, blinking up at the tall, irritated woman who’s knocked him down so easily. She looks around at the baffled audience and rolls her eyes.

Fuck, Varric has missed her.

Evie shrieks with excitement and almost falls into the pit, and that sets the rest of the audience roaring: Cassandra is declared the winner, and behind Varric, money changes hands. 

“What idiot bet against her?” Varric demands, hanging onto the back of Evie’s belt to stop her from crashing into the mud.

“I bet she’d stretch it out longer than two minutes,” says Dorian, disgruntled.

Cassandra helps the chevalier to his feet, and there’s a hilarious moment where they’re comparing sword grips and Varric is sure, absolutely sure, that she’s about to start grilling him about his guard stance or criticising his footwork, but she just claps him on the shoulder and ambles off to where Cullen is waiting.

“I suppose that went about as well as I could expect,” sighs Jospehine. “At least she didn’t knock him out in the first exchange. Varric, come and see me this afternoon; we will need to get the tailor in for you before the ball tomorrow.”

“That sounds fun,” says Varric, lying. “You got a pretty dress, Nugget? Or are we going for some kind of matching uniform look?”

“I have a dress,” she confirms. “Not uniforms, but there’s a, a - what did you say? A colour scheme.”

“Blue is very _in_ this season at court,” says Leliana. “The Inquisition will stand out by bucking that trend, but nothing so gauche as identical uniforms. Can you believe Cullen wanted military-style uniforms? In bright red?”

“I can believe it, actually,” says Varric. “It’s a little martial for our whole aesthetic, with our child-messiah at the fore.”

“I wanted a dress,” says Evie firmly. “You go to a ball at the Winter Palace, you wear a dress, a proper fancy one.”

“Quite right, too,” says Varric. “Only the best for my girl.” A tread on the boards at the stairs into the box, and he looks up, a smile breaking over his face. “Hey, Seeker.”

Cassandra’s expression is warm. “I thought it was you,” she says, and puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes. “It is good to see you again, Varric. You have come just in time.”

“Yeah, if I’d slept in this morning I’d have missed your amazing duel. Look at you, fighting for the honour of the Inquisition.”

It’s probably a bit mean for him to be teasing her so soon, but it’s worth for her deep, earnest noise of disgust, and the way she’s laughing even as she groans, and socks him in the shoulder with a closed fist, gently enough that it only stings because of her gauntlets.

~

After a hot bath, and some clean clothes, and a frankly invasive meeting with Josephine’s tailor, Varric is left alone to unpack in the lavish room overlooking the landscaped gardens of the Winter Palace for about fifteen minutes before Evie comes busting in his door and launches herself headfirst onto the enormous pile of silk and feathers that is his bed.

“Presents!” she demands.

“Do not be rude,” says Cassandra, leaning against the doorframe. “Varric has come a long way, are you not glad to see him?”

“I already said I was glad to see him this morning,” says Evie, but she slips off the mattress to come and give Varric a desultory hug around the arm and peek into the bag he’s rummaging through. “But did you bring me a present though?”

“Cheeky,” says Varric. “Over on the table. Be careful, it’s heavy.”

“You spoil her,” says Cassandra indulgently, as Evie bounces over to the wrapped package.

“She could use a bit of spoiling,” says Varric. “Oh, I had something for you, too, where did I put it?” He knows exactly where he put it, but he’s oddly reluctant to seem anything other than perfectly casual about Cassandra’s gift.

“Oh, it’s a rock,” says Evie, pulling back the last of the wrappings. “Thank you, Varric.” The wonderful child, so polite at the sight of a lump of sandstone for her birthday. 

Varric coughs. “Turn it over, sweetheart.”

Cassandra has to help her. On the underside of the rock is a shining depression of molten gold with a pearly rainbow sheen, about the size of a soup bowl, like the inside of a particularly pretty shell.

“Ohhh,” says Evie, enchanted. “What is it?”

“Where did you get a piece of a dragon eggshell?” says Cassandra, tracing her fingers over the iridescent nacre. “Your reports did not mention any dragons, Varric.”

“A dragon egg,” Evie whispers. “Did you fight a dragon?”

“Nah,” says Varric. “There was a dragon nesting a ways south of Griffon Wing, and we helped out a researcher who’d been studying her nesting patterns when he got too close to her nest and startled her. Don’t worry, we didn’t get into a fight with any dragons.”

“Especially not a nesting mother, I hope,” says Cassandra. “Do you see, Evie? From the outside, the eggs appear to be merely rocks, but it is only a layer of clay, which will crumble away so the baby can break free. This shiny layer usually dissolves after hatching.”

“Unless the protective clay is fired, say, by an accidental blast from the mother right before hatching,” says Varric smugly, “which hardens it and the inner shell, and preserves the whole thing.”

“It’s so pretty,” Evie breathes. “And it’s for me?”

“Well, I didn’t lug the damn thing all the way from the Abyssal Rift for Dorian.”

Evie is thrilled to bits, so Varric gets to be smug about that. She hugs him three times in a row, does a little happy dance, and makes a valiant effort to carry the egg fragment off - she manages to lift it, but it’s too heavy for her to bear for any length of time, and she dashes off to find one of her bodyguards to use for a pack mule.

“I’m afraid your present might be a bit of a let down after that,” says Varric. “There wasn’t going to be a sequel - sales were awful - but I found a draft in my papers and polished it up while I was on the road, so. Someone told me you liked the first one.” The stack of papers he hands over is tatty and mismatched, hand-written and tied with string, the top page reading _Swords and Shields 2: Come up with a clever title later, by Varric Tethras_.

Cassandra goes wide-eyed and rather pink. “How did you -” she stammers. “I do not -”

Varric stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Cole might have mentioned,” he says. “I mean, if you don’t want it - it was just to keep busy on the road -”

“No!” says Cassandra, and snatches it out of reach. “I - that is - very thoughtful?” She clutches the manuscript close. “Thank you, Varric.”

Varric is pretty sure his own face is red now, too. “You’re welcome,” he says. “No trouble at all. I hope you like it.”

There’s a long moment then, when Cassandra holds the book like it’s the most precious thing, and stares at him with something unreadable in her expression, and Varric feels twenty different kinds of breathless and strange, and neither of them speaks, because he thinks he might say something unwise and maybe Cassandra will as well, and he doesn’t know what will happen next -

And then the Iron Bull comes lumbering in with Evie tucked under his arm like a parcel and says “I heard you went dragon hunting without me, Varric, that’s poor form,” and the moment is broken, and Varric doesn’t have to think too hard about what, exactly, he might have said next.


End file.
